The Lost Girl and The Traveling Man
by LoveIsATemple
Summary: She looked at him too long, touched him too much, but he couldn't stop her. She was like a drug: the more he shot up, the more he needed. How long would it take to overdose? He kissed her too sweetly, spoke to her too softly, but she couldn't get out now. He was her sun: the thing that kept her alive and warm and safe. How long would it take for him to burn her? AU/AH/OOC.
1. Prologue (The Beginning)

**Summary:** She looked at him too long, touched him too much, but he couldn't stop her. She was like a drug to him: the more he shot up, the more he needed. How long would it take for him to overdose? He kissed her too sweetly, spoke to her too softly, but she couldn't get out now. He was her sun: the thing that kept her alive and warm and safe. How long would it take for him to burn her? AU/AH (kind of)/OOC. Future Mature content and vulgar language.

*Read A/N at the bottom for more information.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing in regards to Doctor Who at all. I own no book, music, or movie/television references. Idea's mine, but that's it.**

"The beginning is the most important part of the work." Plato___, __The Republic_

* * *

_**The Beginning**_

Clara believed there was a beginning to every story. For if there was no beginning, she reasoned, how could there be an end?

A film she saw a while back revolved around a family of writers. The son in the film was writing a short story and the first words to his tale were the first words that ever fell on the audiences ears: "I remember it hurt," he said in a voice over, "Looking at her hurt."

For some reason, even though she knew the voice was just an actor reading lines in a recording booth somewhere in Los Angeles, California, she had a feeling this movie would change her life. Movies had always been like that for her. If she wasn't captivated in the first five minutes, it was a lost cause. But those words, the first words, well, they held her hostage. They stuck a stinging knife against her throat and threatened to go for the jugular.

This is her beginning. It is not a fairytale and it's not been thought up by a genius moneymaker in Hollywood. It doesn't even begin with her birth as so many great stories do. No, Clara's story changed her life and she swore to God the entire time she lived it, cameras were following her, making her existence into a movie. They were towards the end, she presumed, when they figured out who she was to him.

When it began however, when she didn't know that around the bend was her destroyer, when all she cared about was the noise her heart made, she was just a lost girl.

..1..1..

She could hear her heart. After listening for long hours, her eyes watching the sky go from blue to pink to black, she reasoned with her brain and set to work on naming the sound her heart was making. The process took time. Time she typically reserved for labour or tedious tasks. She needed to find out though, what the noise reminded her of. The sun rose and fell constantly before it clicked. Her heart, the gentle thrumming of it, the forceful banging of it, she could hear it all. And it sounded like trouble.

Put with his heart as it was so many times, the call was different. It wasn't scary or worrying. No, it was neither of those. Their hearts, as they beat together in their chests, mingling in the heat and the sweat and the lust, they sounded like music. They sounded as if Mozart had composed them; sculpted them by hand and put them in their bodies to be found years later when the individuals had age and life wearing on their shoulders.

Full of sloth and loathing, she could hear her heart after he left as it thumped angrily. It screamed at her endlessly, throwing its voice around all hours of the starless night.

His heart no longer sang with hers and maybe that was why she skulked. Why her heart, her soul, berated her. He let go of her as the sun brushed a soft pink hue across the horizon that stretched for miles down the shore. Arms that once held her close let her fall into the waves. Swathed in surges of sorrow and twists of joy, slowly being swallowed by the ocean of her own making, she drowned.

She was still drowning, eavesdropping on her heart's whispers as she watched the shore fade to the darkest of blue and then to the most solid black.

Clara's head pretended sometimes. It went back to the days when she lay sweaty and worn on his bed, watching him read a book or write an article.

And then she would be overwhelmed with memories in the present, they struck her like matches and engulfed her in their flame. She burned with nostalgia in the sweetest, most painful way. She ached for him constantly, wishing foolishly for him to return. She begged at least to go back in time. Surf the universe in a blue box. In his blue box. The one he tempted her with.

And while she was hoping for days taken from her, that was when she heard it. It was not the insufficient lull of her heart. It was not a trick of the light, for all that surrounded her was darkness and she was not dreaming because she never slept anymore.

The commotion whirred and beeped around her, filling her eardrums with clouding thoughts. Her ribs hurt and it took her a moment, a vicious moment, to realise it was her heart crashing and moaning against her bones.

It was there. Truly and definitely it was there. It faded in and out and in and out until it sunk against the thick, wet grains of sand . She felt like fainting and maybe she did when the doors snapped open and he walked out with a bright smile gracing his lips, because the second her eyes landed on him, when they took in the bow tie and the suspenders, she was hit with a sudden memory. It was as if the night was released by the box and aimed directly at her head.

She was falling and drowning all over again and she could hear his voice as if it were right next to her, but she couldn't see him. She saw only the scraps of time long ago, but his call bled into her ear and soaked in her brain like it had been there all along: "Clara," it shouted, and through the remnants of years past she could feel his arms cradling her. "Clara, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." It cried . . . _he_ cried. Drops of liquid bathed her skin as he continued to speak. "I don't know what happened. I was supposed to be gone for five minutes. How long has it been, Clara. Please, tell me," he whined. He sounded lost and in so much pain.

She wanted to tell him, to answer him, but her mouth wouldn't move. Her eyes remained shut and finally after what seemed like hours, that night became crystal clear.

The night her life changed forever. The night she met The Doctor.

* * *

**A/N: **_Despite talking about Clara here, some of the story will focus on The Doctor's perspective due to the storyline being a bit more dramatic. It'll be easier to understand what's going on if we get insight to his mind as well as Clara's. You'll be finding more about each character in the next chapter, which is the true "beginning" to their story. This is just the prologue and it's really short, as you can tell. It gets longer, but there's no scheduled release date for each chapter. It'll be when I have them completed and proofread properly. _

_The story's AU and very OOC, but I say kind of AH because there's still spooky stuff going on, but The Doctor and everyone is human. Torchwood exists, but they're more experimental inventors and not alien crime fighters. The Doctor's kind of an ass in this, very self-centered and womanizing. Clara's sarcastic and snappy, but very closed off and doesn't like people all that much. _

_I hope you enjoyed reading and look forward to what happens next. If you want to review, favourite, or follow, you can do that too. It'll make me smile and feel all warm and fuzzy inside. _

_Thanks - LoveIsATemple_


	2. Did We Move Too Fast?

**"At first Rapunzel was terribly frightened when a man such as her eyes had never yet beheld, came to her; but the King's son began to talk to her quite like a friend, and told her that his heart had been so stirred that it had let him have no rest, and he had been forced to see her."**

**_Rapunzel _| The Brothers Grimm  
**

* * *

Chapter One: _Did We Move Too Fast?_

Wet hair stuck to her face in several places and she struggled to pull it back in her hair tie. The mirror in the kitchen was filthy, but she believed she was too, so they were a perfect match. Eventually she gave up on looking pretty and just tied the band around her hair without looking in the reflective glass.

Grime painted the kitchen floor, spreading like water through the cracks. Despite the unclean nature of the pub, they always managed to pass their inspection. Though she believed it had something to do with her bosses connections. No one complained about the mess, though. Regulars and newcomers joined the scene every day.

"Come on, Clara, move it along," Donna pipped, her red hair bouncing on her shoulders like flame as it licked down her back. The young woman smiled over her shoulder at her trainee and Clara smiled back, hoping she wouldn't notice how fake it was.

Donna had been Clara's "T.O." when she first got hired. Flirtatious, kind of mean, and extremely sarcastic, Clara found it hard to dislike the woman. Until she very much nearly got Clara fired when she blamed Clara for the cash that repeatedly went missing from the register.

Some fake apologies later and Donna still worked here. Fortunately, or unfortunately, so did Clara.

The interminable chatter of bar patrons and waitresses resonated annoyingly in Clara's ears. She stood just inside the kitchen, waiting behind the door with a tray resting delicately on the palm of her hand. She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, preparing herself for the loudness she was about to face. Opening her eyes and releasing her lungs, she nudged the door open with her hip, the tray tilting ever so slightly as she exited the kitchen.

Tables and chairs were spread out everywhere, scraping the floor as people, unsatisfied with either the number of chairs/tables or the placement of said chairs/tables, moved them around.

Yellow lights let off a warm glow in the building and Clara shivered against the extreme heat being let off by the amount of customers tonight. It was a Saturday and there was a football match, so of course everyone came to the local pub. Because who'd want to sit at home with their own beer when they could come here and get drunk for too much money and not enough space.

People dressed in all sorts of odd, revealing clothing, milled about. Clara watched them all bump into each other, their faces pulled into drunken smiles and their fists kept clenched at their sides. She wobbled through the crowded pub, twisting around tables and customers until she got to the bar.

Squeezing in-between two gentleman and slamming her plastic tray on the wooden counter, Clara swiveled her head around in search of Craig.

"Clara, nice of you to show up!" Craig's loud London accent wafted to Clara and she smiled at him as he made his way to her, a bottle of some clear liquid in his hand.

"I'm not late tonight, Craig," she grinned, tapping her fingers against her tray.

"How was home when you left?" He asked, slapping his hand down on Clara's. She flinched, though no pain radiated from where he'd touched her. Despite his former profession, Craig was gentler than a puppy.

Clara narrowed her eyes at him, but stopped when she saw his pout. "It was fine," she assured him. "Patsy was more than willing to let me go tonight." Their cat, Patsy, had a habit of clawing at Clara's legs whenever she wanted to leave the house.

"Good, good." Craig started to put various glasses on Clara's tray and she admired the concentrated look on his face as he dripped several different fluids into them. His lined face was handsome still and if you looked past the scars, he might even be pretty. When he was done, he looked down at her and nodded towards a table in the back.

"They're very close to their limit, those guys, so be careful. The bloke on the far left is a bit grabby."

Clara stared at the man in question and noticed the offset balance in his posture. He was slumped forward slightly and she could see from where she stood his lazy smile and crossed eyes. A grey business suit hugged his beer gut and he suddenly burst out laughing even though it seemed no one had said anything. His friends joined in all the same.

"I'll take care of myself, Craig," she said as she walked off, her tray balanced precariously on her palm and shoulder.

Clara braced herself for the drunken sight, pushing aside several noisy and obnoxious people in her path. The twenty-two year-old sighed, but she couldn't help that she didn't like most human beings. Circumstances and situations had ruined the prospect of people for her. And seeing them like this, inebriated and sleazy, day after day, night after night, truly helped destroy them completely.

She approached the table with a smile on her face still, having to play the part of happy-go-lucky waitress. They paid no attention to her while she placed the various drinks around. The glasses clinked the wood with force when she put them down, the liquid sloshing, threatening to spill.

Her eyes left the busy table when a prickle started up on her neck. Someone was watching her.

Turning her head and putting down the last drink, Clara spotted a lone customer. His eyes were trained on her, begging her to notice him. A blush crept up from her chest and pooled in her cheeks. She couldn't look away. It was as if he had her face in his hand and was forcing her to look.

She'd seen him before. He never disappointed, always showing up almost like magic. One minute there would be no illustrious ladies man and the next all the women in the pub (married or otherwise) fell over him.

He looked different tonight. A bow tie still wrapped around his throat, but his hair, which usually stuck in an unruly mess about his head, was slicked back, revealing one of his stick-out ears. His face was pale in the harsh dimness of the pub and his chin was stubbled in a colour that matched the deep brown of his hair. A smirk danced on his lips and he winked at Clara. Her knees went wobbly immediately while her stomach flip-flopped. _Stop it, Clara. This isn't like you._

Which was true, it was nothing like her. Clara had never been one to like people, let alone find them attractive. Faces blurred into one another constantly until it looked like she was the only human in a giant Jackson Pollock painting. What was different about him? Was it because he was looking at her like he wanted to eat her?

Before she could step away from the table she was currently collecting empty glasses from, a hand cupped around her ass and squeezed. Yelping, Clara grabbed at the sweaty limb and found that it belonged to Grey-Business-Suit-Guy. A sloppy grin spread across his face and his crooked, yellowing teeth were on full display.

"Wanna sit for a drink, babe?" He asked. Alcohol wafted into Clara's nostrils and she fought against the bile rising in her throat. His hand stayed plastered against the tight skirt she wore for her uniform.

Frowning, Clara tried to escape. "No, sir," she said through a tight throat.

"Awe, come on, sweet cheeks," he whispered, pinching her.

Clara yelped again. "Calling me pet names won't change my answer. No." Her voice sounded more defiant this time.

The man looked as if he were going to speak again, but before he could open his mouth all the way, a larger hand seized his arm and dragged it off of Clara.

Frightened and shaky, Clara turned to Craig and she watched as he let go of the man's arm and instead grabbed ahold of his tie. Her pulse raced against her throat and she couldn't hear what Craig was saying through the blood rushing in her ears.

Backing away slowly, bumping into people on the way, Clara rushed for the kitchen. The door was in her sights and she pushed on. Customers had spread out, all intent on finding out what the retired cage fighter would do to the drunk man who grabbed a woman's ass.

Of course this would happen to her. It wasn't the first time. She often thought it came with the territory of being a waitress at a pub, but this time was different. It made her feel exponentially more violated.

Maybe it was embarrassment because of the mystery man staring at her. Although why would she be embarrassed? She didn't know the guy and he didn't know her. And yet, the more she thought about it, the more that solution made sense.

Well, only because he was staring and it made her uncomfortable. That was the singular explanation. Mix that with ass grabbing and you've got a racing pulse and a heated blush.

Looking back at the scene unfolding between Craig and Business-Guy, Clara reached out her hands for the kitchen door blindly. What met her touch wasn't the door. It was a chest. She pushed without thinking and found herself falling forward. Rough hands encircled her arms and pulled her down with whoever was grabbing her. Snapping her head back, Clara saw who she had bumped into.

Mystery Man's face was pulled into one of shock and pleasure. Clara could't find time to enjoy it though when she landed on his body with a loud clang. His head went down and hit the ground the same time her chin poked against his sternum.

"Ouch, goddammit," he said in a hushed voice. His voice sounded like a song and Clara secretly begged him to say something else. She got her wish when he shoved her off of him. "God, your chin is like a knife. I think you broke my skin."

She landed next to him and let out a breathy "umph" before scrambling to her feet. He followed suit, lifting himself up and brushing off imaginary dirt from his tweed coat.

"Well, your chin is very square." Clara turned to face him, but was met only with his chest. He was taller than he looked sitting down. She lifted her supposedly pointy chin and caught his gaze. They stared at each other a moment and Clara's heart did that jumping thing again.

He frowned suddenly, a grimace playing at his lips. "What?" He put his hands on his hips and bent down, his face level with hers.

"You-you insulted my chin, so I insulted yours," she squeaked, wanting to shut her eyes and shrink away.

The man stood to his full height and threw his head back, a laugh not far behind. "You think calling my chin square is an insult?"

"It's a _very_ blocky chin," she declared, crossing her arms across her chest. Her heart pounded against her forearm and she took a few deep breaths, trying to get it to calm down.

"Women tend to appreciate my chin, thank you very much. Yours is like a weapon." He reached out and poked said body part. Her breath caught in her throat at the soft graze.

She tore away from his hand and glared up at him. "Well, at least I don't wear ridiculous clothes," she blurted, pointing at his attire. "Who wears suspenders anyway?"

"Where are you from?" He asked, ignoring her comment.

Clara was caught off guard by the question and mumbled, "Lancashire."

The man laughed again. "I knew it. Tell me, Lancashire, what's a girl as small as you doing here?" He gestured around them, pointing a finger at the bar.

"I work here. Thought you would've sussed that out by now. You've been here plenty of times to get a look at me." Clara attempted to walk away from the man, who was steadily pissing her off while simultaneously causing her body to do all sorts of unnatural things like sweat and stutter, but he held an arm out, blocking her path.

"Where do you think you're going?" He asked slyly. Clara rolled her eyes and tried to push by him. He didn't budge. Great.

Clara stepped back and watched the ground, thinking about how to best go around him. "I'm working, where do you think I'm going?"

"Come on, humour me," he lifted his foot and nudged her shin. It should've hurt, he was pressing against her tibia rather hard, but instead of pain, a wink of longing sparkled up her leg. She flicked her eyes back to his face, trying and probably failing to hide her shudder.

"Humour you?" She raised an eyebrow and huffed a laugh.

He opened his mouth to speak, but screams radiating behind her tore her away from their riveting conversation. Scanning quickly, Clara saw Craig's arm tucked underneath Business-Guy's chin. The older, drunker man sputtered, his face visibly turning red. Spinning on her heel and turning a blind eye to the flirty man-boy, Clara rushed for Craig.

"Mr. Owens, let him go," she warned, touching his arm gently. Craig immediately released him and staggered back, looking as if he'd just awoken from a horridly vivid nightmare.

He shook his head and Clara noticed he was visibly shaking. She took his hand and led him to the back, not sparing another glance at the mass of bodies surrounding the fallen soldier. Muffled accusations flew around her head as she tugged Craig behind the bar.

"Owens," an angry voice called. Their boss, Strax, in all his shortness stood in front of the counter, arms crossed and a frown in place. His bald head reflected the light above him and Clara wanted to shield her eyes. He was dressed in his typical silver, shiny suit that did nothing to hide his enormous belly.

"Yes, sir," Craig stood up straighter and Clara let go of him, retreating to the side of the bar where she could still hear their voices.

"What was that?" Strax asked, flicking his thumb behind him and pointing at where Business-Guy still had people tending to his neck, a bruise leaking along the man's skin quickly.

"He was drunk and had grabbed at our servers asses all night. I'd had enough," Craig may be large, but Clara knew how soft he was. His voice was small at the moment, dwindling into nothingness.

Clara heard Strax sigh and out of the corner of her eye saw him rub his forehead as if he had a massive headache. "And you couldn't throw him out?"

"Eavesdropping, Lancashire?" A voice sounded in Clara's left ear. She jumped, a squeak tumbling through her lips. Her hand went up automatically and swatted at the breath that tickled her skin. It hit something hard. She looked up and saw Mystery Guy holding his nose.

"God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that," she whispered, pulling his hand away and inspecting the damage. A small red mark outlined the tip of his nose. Her skin rippled when she noticed he was staring at her again. She was closer this time and could make out the colour of his eyes. In the dim lights they looked like a cross between teal and hazel. They moved over her eyes, dancing between them again and again.

"It's fine," he said finally, taking her wrist in his hand so softly she felt like a feather in his grip. He held her for a moment longer before dropping her wrist. It flopped to her side, limp. "Were you then?" Clara looked at him quizzically. He sighed, an annoyed sound seeping through his teeth. "Eavesdropping, I mean." He tilted his head at Craig and Strax. They looked more civil than before and Clara let out a breath.

"What does it matter to you?" She asked, her patience wearing thin.

He clicked his tongue and pursed his lips. "Why are you being so snappy, Lancashire?"

Clara rolled her eyes, figuring it was better than slapping him. "Why are you asking so many questions?"

Mystery Man laughed again, a sweet sound that Clara loathed if only because it made her tummy feel fuzzy and her mouth water. She closed her lips to stop the drool from spilling out.

"You do realise you keep on answering my questions with questions, correct?"

"So do you," Clara defended, smiling when she realised she had broken the pattern. She shook her head and dropped the smile.

"Mm," he grinned, showing off perfect, white teeth. Wonder how much they cost. "But I do it for a reason. Really, though were you eavesdropping?"

"Maybe," Clara said, inspecting her fingernails, her ears catching the words 'But I do it for a reason.'

"Is he your boyfriend?" Clara jerked her head and found Mystery Man's eyebrows raised in question.

"Craig? My boyfriend?" Clara asked, looking back at where Craig and Strax were talking still. Craig's face had significantly calmed down and Strax was no longer fuming.

Mystery Man lowered his eyebrows heavily over his eyes. They darkened immediately and held Clara captive. "I'll take that as a no then." He stepped forward, swiftly invading Clara's personal bubble. She usually kept it clear of people excluding Craig and her grandparents, not that they spoke to her anymore, but she was entranced by his presence. He gave off a delicious scent. It was male and smelled like he had lived in the woods and the rain for years.

She wanted to step back, tell him to shove off and not bother her anymore. Her head kept saying to do just that, but her feet would not move. When he crept upon her again she realised he had cornered her against a wall. His body inched closer and soon enough his chest was nearly flush with hers.

"I don't wanna play anymore, Lancashire," he whispered, his breath ghosting her jaw as he grazed his nose along her chin.

Looking above his head and to the back door, Clara struggled to breathe, all sense of anything lost to her completely.

"Play what?" She asked, her voice quivering. He closed his eyes as she spoke, letting her voice flow over his cheeks. He took in a deep breath and moved one of his hands up her side. Goosebumps rose on her skin, but she still didn't want to move. His fingers rested on her back and warmth from them soaked through her black t-shirt.

"This game," he said quietly as if he were struggling to speak properly.

"I. . .don't know what you're talking about," Clara said finally, her eyes closed and her head leaning against the wall in submission.

Just as she thought he was going to kiss her, release all the tension between them, his body left hers. A whoosh of cold air breathed across her skin and she shivered for entirely different reasons than before. He didn't speak, he simply stood at full height, watching something with a solemn face.

Clara frowned. "Are you okay?" She asked, snapping her fingers in front of his face. He blinked awake, and without saying a word, he ran out the back door. It opened with a loud slamming noise that sounded deafening to Clara. She was caught between embarrassment and stupidity, her mind replaying the event again and again.

Clara's body was frozen as she watched his silhouette disappear into the rainy night through the window. Her mouth hung open and she felt something slide down her chin. Lifting her hand to inspect what it was, she pulled her fingers away. "Saliva. I am literally drooling."

She stared at the door for a few more seconds, her mind caught on Mystery Man. Her wrist stung in a gorgeous pain from where he'd touched her and she couldn't for the life of her figure out why. He clearly flirted with her, expecting her to run away with him and she found herself wishing she'd chased after him. Her stomach felt weird and the whole situation was starting to frighten her.

"Clara."

Clara whipped around, expecting to find Mystery Man again. Her heart fell flat and her cheeks reddened when Craig poked his head up from the bar.

"What?" She hissed, immediately regretting the harsh tone to her voice. Craig didn't look hurt by it, but Clara still felt she needed to apologise. "Sorry, Craig. What can I help you with? Need me to sweet talk Strax into rehiring you again?"

Craig shook his head, a small smile tweaking his lips up. "No, I need you to get back to work so I don't have to sweet talk Strax."

Nodding her head, she walked to the bar and found another tray. Craig put glasses on it and filled them with various amounts of coloured alcohol. Some drinks donned salt rims and lime while others got mango and strawberries.

"I don't think you're his type, by the way," Craig whispered under his breath. He said it so quietly Clara wasn't sure she even heard him correctly.

"Whose type would that be? Strax's? Because my amazing flirtation skills worked that one time you broke a customers nose," she reminded him, punching his arm lightly.

He smiled wider. "Yeah, yeah, I owe you for that one still, but no. I'm talking about that guy you were talking to earlier."

Clara's heart started buzzing and she pressed a hand against her chest as if it would magically slow down with pressure. "What's wrong with him?" She gulped, chastising herself for sounding weak.

"He's a bit of an asshole. I've seen him around before, just picking up birds. New one every time he comes," Craig said as he swiped up spilled beer from the countertop. He flipped the towel over his shoulder and grinned at Clara, motioning his eyes at the tray.

"Oh, right," she said and picked up the tray. "I wasn't fooled by his macho man façade, by the way. He just spoke to me is all."

Craig looked at her, something flickering behind his eyes that she couldn't place. Fear? Jealousy, maybe?

"That's all he has to do, Clara. His voice is like honey. It attracts both bears and flies."

Clara blinked at him a few times, processing her friend's words. "You calling me a fly, Craig? Because I don't really know what that means, but if it's offensive, I'll probably hurt you."

"You're not a fly, Clara. It's a metaphor. Just take it. And go deliver those drinks. The games about to end and they're all rowdy. Wouldn't want another riot."

Saluting Craig, she wandered off to find the feisty alcoholics before they decided to start a fire. Her mind kept going to Craig's face and Mystery Man's sudden disappearance. It was odd, right? But she shook it off because nothing weird ever happened here. The sun set the same way every night and except for a few robberies and perhaps a couple of mob bosses, the streets stayed clean.

When her shift was over and the pub looked like someone had set ten powerful wind machines off, Clara heard the sound. She heard it above the noisy, left over bar patrons and the static television sets, above the squeaking of chairs being rocked back and forth and the crashing sounds of glass smashing on to the tables, Clara heard a bang. It was soft when she first noticed it, but the more she replayed it in her head, the louder it got. Bang, bang, _bang!_

..1..1..

"Shit," The Doctor cursed under his breath as he ran through the slippery, way too tall grass, his trousers glued to his legs. Rain splattered into his eyes and his magnificently manicured hair was drooling across his forehead. Thunder rumbled above him and if he looked hard enough, he could see the streaks of lightning behind the clouds.

He knew he should have left the girl alone. What was it Amy always told him? "You can't keep it in your pants, can you?" She always said that. Then she would follow it by saying, "It'll get you killed one day."

At the time, he'd shrugged it off while trying to look cool under her watchful gaze. Now he wished she'd never said anything. Because here he was, trailing a path through a field with madmen on his heels. And it was that girl's fault. She mussed with his brain, made him do things. Usually he made the women wait a bit, tease them mercilessly until it was them who pounced him. He sincerely could not contain himself with her, though. She breathed and talked and moved like magic. With wide eyes and a nonchalant attitude, she'd made his heart do funny things. Like beat and ram so hard in his chest that his ribs hurt.

She looked so taken. She was definitely quick to submit. Although he had a feeling it was because no one had ever touched her the way he had. Lancashire's body language and the way she said things, it was like everything and everyone was out to get her, like she had to be sarcastic because that was the only way to defend herself against the harshness of humanity.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud banging noise that echoed through the windy night. Gunshots, three of them. They're shooting. The Doctor appreciated the distance between himself and the snipers as the beach came into view. The sea sloshed with the rain and the sand gleamed a broken grey colour beneath the blackening sky. Trying not to slip against the sleek grains of sand, The Doctor rushed to the beach huts. Their colours depressed him deeply in the night and he couldn't figure out which was his until it was right in front of him.

Whipping his head back to where the men would be following him, he ceremoniously crept next to the stairs of the hut and shuffled on his knees to the trap door. He pulled out the pointy, "screwdriver" thing he had taken before leaving Torchwood headquarters and pressed the button Song had shown him. It sunk in after a few clicks and a green light shone. He quickly moved his hand over it to shield the dazzle but his flesh did nothing to hide the noise. It was loud and he thanked the sky for its thunder as he traced the trap door. A few bolts moved around and he lifted up the lid, dropping down into the small, cramped, and musty cellar.

The Doctor waited, listening for anything out of the ordinary. It was easy to hear in this space, the thunder rumbling and vibrating his skull. When there were no voices or footsteps above him, he reached into his soaked pocket and pulled out his mobile. The disposable phone lit up the dark room and the man spotted his briefcase in the corner, propped against the lone chair.

Before he could dial any number, his phone started buzzing in his hand. He nearly dropped it in surprise. Catching his breath and smoothing his shirt, The Doctor pressed the ANSWER key and held the phone to his ear.

"Did they get you?" A Scottish accent asked him. The Doctor laughed and sat down in the chair, yanking his briefcase into his lap.

"Yes, Amy, and they stole my vocal box. Believe nothing I say for it is not me who says it," he replied as he unzipped the case and started flipping through various files. One caught his eye and he dragged it out, opening it up to read.

"I never believe anything you say anyway," she said tiredly. He braced himself for a scolding. "You were stupid. I told you not to go to the pub tonight. You needed to leave before the rain started. You've jeopardized the entire thing now!" She shouted, but The Doctor merely held the phone away from his ear as she yapped on about the proper etiquette to take in regards to stealing government secrets.

"Yes, Amy, yes, I know all of this. I just wanted a drink," he defended as he continued to read the wordy file.

Amy sighed and The Doctor smiled, loving how he made her tick. "You wanted a quick fuck, don't lie to me. Don't think I didn't see the girl you had your eye on." At the mention of Lancashire, The Doctor's pulse started to speed up. He choked on nothing and hit his chest a few times. He could _hear_ Amy's smile. "Gotcha."

"Okay, fine," The Doctor admitted. "I was stupid. I get that. Can you ensure my safety to the next stopping point now?" He asked, growing impatient. He closed the file and placed it back inside his briefcase.

"Yes, Raggedy Man. But be warned, they've got the big guns out now. Song is not too pleased with you."

The Doctor grinned and stood up, placing his briefcase by his feet. "I know, but I got what I wanted. What we wanted. I'll be leaving now. I'm gonna miss Hunstanton. Frinton next, correct?"

"Mm, Frinton-on-Sea. Be careful, Doctor. We need you alive for this article. You know the way from here. Phone me tomorrow when you've left." And with that, she hung up, nothing beating against The Doctor's eardrums except the reverberating sound of rain hitting the trapdoor.

"I love you," he whispered slowly, his mood turning solemn for a brief moment as he tried to think out a good escape route. He reached down for the map in his coat pocket and unfolded it, laying it down on the sandy ground. Shining his flashlight on the paper, he traced his finger along the route he most desired and exhaled gruffly, his breath mixing with dust.

Sometimes he didn't like running. It wore on him. His eyes were constantly sunken and he feared his beautiful face was aging quicker than his body due to the high amounts of stress he endured.

But then he remembered the thrill. Of the chase, of sleeping with extravagant and wicked women. The thrill of typing up an article to challenge the great Hunter Thompson and sending it off to whatever magazine offered the most money. He was changing the world, whether or not the world knew it yet. And now, now that he held a secret the government was willing to _kill_ for. . .well, there was no way he could turn his back.

Wanting to look at it one more time, he reached inside his briefcase and fiddled around for the secret compartment. He felt the latch give and he felt cold metal twist in his fingers. The key looked so ordinary, so useless. No writing, not even a brand. Just a smooth silver colour and spiky grooves.

He dropped it from his hand and let it slide back in place when he figured he'd wasted enough time. Getting up, The Doctor examined his ruined clothes and prepared himself for more gunshots, more chases, and more secrets.

"God, I love my job."

..1..1..

Clara held tight to the umbrella stationed a few inches from her head, noticing more and more the pointlessness of having it there. Rain still spattered against her face and swam in her eyes. The clinking of her work shoes harmonized nicely with the crackling sound of rain hitting the cobblestone road and the subsequent vehicles parked rather courageously along the edge of the pavement. She decided when she left the pub that wearing her hood would only make matters worse, but now she had to deal with wet clumps of hair smacking against her cheeks and felt angry at her past self.

A warm glow of moonlight reflected on the ground and if she squinted hard enough it was almost as if stars were shining under her feet. The walk home usually calmed her from a busy day at work, but something about this particular night jumbled her nerves.

First there was the Business-Guy, then Mystery Man and his flirtatious glory. Clara's head swirled with the banging noise she'd heard. It was a mix between the slamming of a metal door and running your nails down a chalkboard.

Shivering against the chilled rain of May, Clara quickened her pace, the overwhelming sense that something bad was happening hanging over her like the storm clouds. The flat she shared with Craig was just around the bend. A crack of thunder echoed through the deserted streets and Clara squinted against the rain whipping in her eyes, blurring her vision like tears.

She glanced to the side, her gaze landing on a family sitting in their living room, a replay of the football match from earlier on the telly. The father, she assumed, sat to the far left with his wife, she assumed, pressed to his side. His arm slung lazily around her shoulder, grazing her bare shoulder with affection. Clara noticed the woman wasn't watching the match, rather fascinated with her lovers neck.

A warm flash sent goosebumps swerving down Clara's arm, bursts of pleasure popping up where they did, as she remembered Mystery Man's neck. How his pulse throbbed against his skin, the veins in his neck popping when he spoke. His Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, Clara's lips centimeters from his.

Clara shook her head vigorously, willing the images and sensations to fly out of her mind. She fumbled through her purse when she was finished, the images and sensations still floating around, looking for her key. As per usual, Clara's preoccupied thoughts blocked her hearing. The running, slapping footsteps fell on her deaf ears and it wasn't until she was flying backward, her key dropping from her hand and her umbrella following suit, did she realise she had nearly walked into a wall.

Adrenaline pulsed through her as if she had just shot herself up with the stuff. Hands fastened around her shoulders, stopping her from completely falling back. Clara let out a squeak of protest, her fingers gripping at her savior's arms. She looked past the water falling in her eyes and tried to see who had nearly killed her and then rescued her.

"You. . ." she breathed before his hand clamped around her mouth. His hand was so large and her jaw was so small that his fingers easily curled to below her ear. Her heart thrummed in her chest as a warming sensation spilled along her skin from where he was touching her.

"Shh," he said, though it slipped through his teeth like a warning. His eyes flicked up and around as if he were looking for something dangerous. When he seemed to think the coast was clear, his mouth opened again, wider this time. "House?" Clara knew what he meant, but his hand was still wrapped around her mouth. She let go of one of his arms and tapped his hand. He let go immediately, pulling his hand back and pressing it to his neck like he hoped it would give him some energy.

"Just around the corner," she breathed, wanting to slump in his arms and fall asleep. He seeped warmth and it calmed her so greatly that even in the rain, the dark, the thunderous roars, and held by a stranger, she was sure sleep was just a blink away.

He pulled her to her feet and she wobbled only a bit before brushing her clothes down and looking at him. Water made her uniform stick to her like gloves and she resented Mystery Man for a moment for seeing her like this. Bending down, Clara searched for her key. A glint of something reflecting the street lamp above them caught her eye and she moved her hand to grasp it.

Without saying a word, and without really knowing why, Clara walked on toward her home. She didn't need to turn around to know Mystery Man was following her. His feet squelched in his shoes and Clara smiled to herself, thinking about all the times her flatmates in uni bragged about luring men back to the house and how often she pursed her lips and frowned at them. _How the tables have turned._ She mused as she stuck the key in and twisted the lock until her door opened.

He closed the door behind them, wiping his feet on the mat as she had done. Patsy mewed from the top of the stairs, coming down to meet Clara and her companion. She wound around her legs, leaving cat hair sticking unflatteringly off her clean-shaven calf's.

"She's not really friendly to most people," Clara said when she noticed Mystery Man squatting, his hand held out for Patsy to sniff. Surprisingly, Patsy went up to Mystery Man and pushed her head against his hand. A sign of great affection from a cat. Clara frowned. "Huh," she said, crossing her arms and tapping her shoe-clad foot.

Mystery Man looked up at her through his lashes and Clara sucked in a breath, caught off guard by the darkness in them. "What?" He asked, his voice chillingly soft.

Clara uncrossed her arms and let her fingers fiddle with the hem of her untucked shirt. "Well, she never does that. It took her a month and a half to warm up to me." Jealousy, however uncalled for, coursed in her veins, making her itch.

"I often feel I can talk to cats," he mused, not looking at her anymore. He had sat down and Patsy was in his lap, brushing the length of her body across his soaked jacket. Patsy's orange fur glistened on the cloth.

Clara walked over to the lovely couple and scooped Patsy up. Even though the cat seemed entranced by Mystery Man, Clara smiled when Patsy still went limp in her arms.

Mystery Man stayed on the ground a moment longer, looking lost in thought, before he snapped awake and got to his feet. Clara had forgotten how tall he was. It made her knees shake and her stomach drop.

They didn't speak and they didn't move. Clara didn't even notice when Patsy leaped from her arms and ran up the stairs, her mews dying out the further away she got. Mystery Man's eyes were still dark, but instead of being frightening, they were mesmerising. Clara vaguely thought of the hypnotists she'd seen on the telly. How they held a watch and swayed it back and forth, telling their patient to follow it. How the next second, when the hypnotist's fingers snapped, the man or woman went into some trance.

Clara felt like that now, like Mystery Man, her hypnotist, was telling her to follow his eyes. Her breathing had stopped long ago, but her lungs weren't gasping for more oxygen. She was content, somewhat, just staring at him. Her skin crawled with anticipating when he stepped forward, his body closing in on her.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Someone rapped at the front door almost comically, their thumps shaking the picture frames above Clara and Craig's fireplace. Clara's thoughts were pulled to the present and she saw Mystery Man's face drawn into a look of pure terror.

"I should probably get that," Clara said clumsily. She started walking for the door, but a hand seized her arm. It should've hurt, the hand was holding her tight, but a sliver of want spurted in fear's place.

"Don't."

Clara's mouth fell open at the bone-chilling sound that came from Mystery Man's mouth. He let go of her arm, but didn't move.

"What's going on?" Clara asked, her own fear inching up from her toes.

Mystery Man pinched his nose and grabbed her arm again, pulling her with him to the kitchen. The light flipped on and Clara shielded her eyes against the harsh ache in her head. The Doctor started pacing.

"Clara? It's Craig! I want to get in! I forgot my key!"

"It's Craig. He needs to come in," Clara said, her voice shaking against her will. She looked at Mystery Man for the first time with doubt. Why wasn't he letting her answer the door?

"Is there a back door?" He questioned, a stony expression in place.

Clara blinked. "Wha-what?"

"Back door? Do you have one?" He asked more impatiently.

"Yes, but why does that-"

He cut her off. "Lancashire, we need to go."

Clara stepped back. Mystery Man looked shocked at her movement. "Go where? I'm not going anywhere with you."

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Mystery Man's eyes turned to the doorway as if he could see the front door from here. "We just need to go. You and me."

"Why you and me?" She demanded, anger mixed with something she'd never felt before fuming in her belly.

"Because they saw us. I know they saw us," he said coolly, but Clara could see the vein in his forehead popping.

"Who the hell saw us?"

"They're chasing me," he said simply as if it were the most obvious thing on the planet.

"What? Who? Is this some trick you use to get girls? Because I've seen this on How I Met Your Mother," Clara said disbelievingly.

The Doctor braced one of his hands against the counter top and slapped his face with the other. Clara jumped as the cracking sound assaulted her ears. "The government. And now they'll be chasing you too. With fucking guns. Damn it," he said breathlessly, rubbing his free hand on his forehead.

She stared at him blankly. A ploy, it must be. Just something to get her in bed with him. She was thinking about it before, but now? No, hell no.

"The government?" She questioned, dragging the words out mockingly.

Mystery Man smiled shyly, nodding his head. The young woman took a deep breath, her mind running over his words. Clara honestly did not know why, but she believed him. She believed him when he said the government was chasing him. Which one of them was crazy? Him or her?

"What did you do?" Her tone was accusatory but weak, her breaths leaving her in puffs of smoke. She could believe him, but she didn't have to be nice about it.

"What makes you think I did anything to them?" He asked, throwing his hands up. Craig knocked on the door again, but Clara could barely hear it.

"Well, they're the ones chasing you with _fucking guns_, so it would kind of make sense that you did something to piss them off!" She shouted, her heart rising to her throat, shock beginning to settle in. Clara backed against a wall, holding a hand to her cheek. She was warm.

"Exactly! They," he pointed behind him toward the window in the kitchen, "are chasing _me_."

Clara scoffed as if this were old news and not completely, earth-shatteringly scary. "Well, I highly doubt they just decided to run after you for no reason!" The Doctor wouldn't meet her eyes and she laughed, an emotionless sound dripping from her tongue. "I knew it."

"Look, they'll be here soon. You need to come with me," he said desperately, his voice pleading with her. She looked at him shocked, like he were an alien asking her to follow him through the stars.

"But I don't know you," she tried to insist, but even the words sounded foreign to her, as if she'd spoken them in some language she never knew she learned and still now couldn't figure out how to translate it into English.

"Oh come on, Lancashire," he said softly, leaning his head closer to hers. Clara's breath caught in her throat. "We've been flirtatiously glancing at each other for a month. We're practically married." Clara looked at him, her eyebrow kinked in an unsatisfied way. Mystery Man sighed and opened his mouth again. "Look, it doesn't matter to them whether or not you know me. They saw us at the pub and they saw us just outside. They're the government, Lancashire, they don't need reason. They want what I have and will stop at nothing to get it. You think you matter to them? To the gun-wielding madmen?"

"How do I know you're not a madman?" Clara asked shakily.

Mystery Man bent down and bit his lip, holding back a laugh and looking up at her through the hair that had fallen over his eyes. "Sweetheart," the way he said that word made Clara forget that she was kind of angry at him and that there potentially were gun-wielding madmen after her. "I _am_ a madman."

It was stupid, she knew it. They'd just officially met today, no matter how many times she found him staring at her. Or the other way around. She didn't even know his _name. _And yet, that was all it took to get her to agree. He must have sensed it because he nodded his head in the direction of her staircase. She turned to go upstairs, thinking over what she would bring. Not too much. That's what they always said in movies.

She hopped up the stairs, stopping at the top when she heard the knocks again. "What about-" but he cut her off once more.

"He'll get the hint eventually."

Clara didn't bother asking what he was going to do. He didn't appear too harmful. Yet again, gunmen were chasing him, so she didn't really know that for a fact. But something in the way he held like she was a flower made her sure of it.

Her bedroom was clean and she couldn't help the giggle that bubbled up her throat. It was if she had entered a dream and was just waiting for the wakeup call.

Patsy swiveled around her legs as she gathered a few bits and pieces. Bras, underwear, band t-shirts, a pair of sweatpants, two pairs of jeans, one pair of shorts, a jacket, and, for the hell of it, one sexy dress. It was deep blue, like cobalt, and fit her snugly enough that she'd never worn it anywhere. Craig had convinced her to buy it when they were roomies at uni for when she'd get asked out on a date. But that'd never happened, and although this was far from a date, she felt like Joan Wilder in _Romancing the Stone _or Bilbo from _The Hobbit_. Being swept up into some grand adventure. No thinking. Just doing.

Craig's voice shouted through the house, "Never mind, I remember we keep a spare."

Worry riddled her bones and she wondered who could have heard him.

Clara shoved all her clothes into her backpack's front pocket, piling her three favourite books on top along with her iPod and sunglasses. Then she ran to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Grabbing her deodorant, toothbrush, a bottle of toothpaste, the money she kept in an empty gum container, and her travel-sized comb, she dropped them into the front pocket and zipped the pack up.

What else did you need when you were running away with a madman?

Stripping off her currently soaked uniform, she changed into fresh, clean-smelling clothes. A tight, blue camisole and a warm Reading Festival jumper she'd gotten when she and Craig went last summer. She shoved her feet into a pair of jeans, having to roll them up due to her stumpy legs. Clara found her trainers and threw them on, lacing them up tight.

"Lancashire!" A voice called.

Standing up, she flung her backpack on and looked at Patsy. The cat purred, lying on her pillow in deep sleep. Not wanting to wake the thing, Clara bit back tears and exited her room.

When she reached the banister, a smile curved her lips. She imagined that if she were looking at herself in a mirror, she wouldn't see the normally weak, lame face. In its place would be a sinister smirk and a quirked eyebrow.

Clara flew down the stairs, stumbling slightly and falling into the warm grasp of Mystery Man. She chuckled, embarrassed.

"Just couldn't say no," Mystery Man mumbled, setting her upright. "Write him a letter." He said plainly, pointing to a desk in the lounge where a piece of paper and pen were shining.

Clara frowned at him and looked at the desk. Feeling Mystery Man's eyes on her, she turned to face him only to find him watching her, inspecting her.

She wandered to the desk and began writing:

_Dear Craig,_

_I don't really know what to say or how to say __what I don't know how to say, but I need to say __something. I'm leaving, Craig. I don't know __how long I'll be gone or if I'll come back at all. __Gosh, that sounds horribly morbid. What I mean __is I'm going on an adventure. Like we used to talk __about doing when we were at uni. Remember? Like __Ender? Or Ishmael? I love you, Craig. You're my brother __and I will miss you. Take care of Patsy and tell Strax I quit. __Don't be too sad now._

_Love __Clara_

Clara kissed the paper for a brief moment, ignoring the odd look Mystery Man gave her, and put it back down, folding it neatly.

"Right, let's go!" Mystery Man shouted, grabbing Clara's hand and turning them around.

"Bye, Craig," Clara whispered to the one person she'd been able to trust since leaving her grandparents as she and Mystery Man fled her home, pushing the back door open and stepping into the night. The rain had stopped, but the grass was still wet.

"There's no gate," Clara warned when Mystery Man led her to the high, wooden fence.

He smirked at her, a cocky grin that melted Clara's soul. "Who needs gates?" Mystery Man bent down and put out his hands, motioning to them.

Shrugging, Clara stepped in them and grasped the edge of the fence. "Ready?" He asked. She couldn't see him, but she knew that smirk had spread into a full out smile.

Splinters were pinching Clara's skin, but she couldn't feel the pain or the blood spilling against her skin through the new burst of adrenaline pumping in her. She took a deep breath and looked at the clearing sky, the moon hanging like a white spotlight. One word spilled past her lips, one word that cemented her position in this run, in Mystery Man's life, "Yes."

* * *

**A/N: **_We're getting a glimpse of Clara and The Doctor now. This is just set up, and yes, they did move a bit too fast. The title does not lie. But that's the point. She doesn't know him and vice versa. They'll be learning more and about each other as the story goes on. Craig still has a place here, don't worry. And so do many other characters, if you can take a guess at who they are. _

_Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. Still don't have a schedule for this and I may never. School's back in swing, so I'm now fumbling around with projects and work._

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

_Thanks again! - LoveIsATemple_


	3. Interchangeable Interrogative Pronouns

**All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.**

_**Peter Pan**_** | J.M. Barrie**

* * *

**Chapter Two: _Interchangeable Interrogative Pronouns._**

**_Clara_**

A thump echoed behind her and Clara turned around, fascinated by this untouchable man who was asking her to run away with him. He crouched down for a second, clearly attempting to gain back his balance, but Clara could only stare. His face glistened in the moonlight as it cast shadows across his features, one of his eyes getting the benefit of the moon's position and the other hidden by malicious secrets.

He spared no moment to watch her as well. Nearly tripping forward, he grabbed her hand and Clara refused to acknowledge the immediate flaring of heat that spread as a result of the contacting flesh. He blared ahead of her and she found herself picking up her pace behind him, watching his body bob up and down as his lanky, too-tall legs travelled too fast.

Narrowly avoiding catching her feet on various stones and twigs, Mystery Man took Clara through the stony pathway that connected her house with the beach. She was confused for a moment, wondering why they were going out into the open if men with fucking guns were chasing them and briefly thought about a good way to escape from this self-proclaimed madman, but when her feet hit the soft sand and it began gritting underneath her socks she decided to trust him.

And she didn't have any clue why.

Not once did he look at her while they dodged various beach huts and scattered animals. His grip was firm on her hand, sweat building up from the closeness of skin, and he dragged her like she was a broken down car and he was her life saving tow-truck. Clara thought, in the way back of her mind, that maybe that analogy wasn't so far off.

As they neared the middle of the wide-stretched beach Clara had a fleeting memory spark in her brain. She remembered her grandmother and grandfather taking her to this exact spot just after her parents passed. They were old and still fairly new to the orphan situation. It'd been years since they had to be parents, but Clara, even at age eight, knew that the people with her then had both lost someone they loved dearly.

Grandfather Oswald took her down here as the tide was going out with a bucket and they built sandcastles. Higher and higher they went, sand crumbling and getting stuck in places grandmother would chastise her for later. Some turned out great, with perfectly shaped pillars and seashells lining the perimeter. Others were not so fortunate, being knocked down by Clara in a huff of anger because one side tumbled down, or the wind blowing over and sending sand in the dear Clara's brown eyes.

The last one their hands created before the sun began its descent was the best. Clara wished she'd grabbed that photograph. The castle was large in diameter, but fairly short. Four towers, crafted by the hands of an old man; outlines of windows and a drawbridge, of square stones and cracks. A moat, deep and filled with sea water, filled with a crab Grandfather Oswald had caught. He brought his shaky, aching finger to the front of their creation and signed his name, gesturing to Clara to do the same. Her finger was less developed, her signature still in practice, but it was clear who this masterpiece belonged to.

Grandmother forced them side by side behind the castle and took a picture, the flash burning Clara's eyes. When they went home, Clara spent the night worrying about the castle, about the thing she had created with her grandfather so soon after her parents death. The next day, she begged and begged Grandfather Oswald to take her back. He begrudgingly put his shoes on and wrapped her warm, walking with her to the place where their hands had met the wet sand.

When Clara got a good look at what had become of the castle, when she saw that all that remained of it was literally nothing but perhaps the few remnants of original sand grains, she realised what life was. You spent your entire lifespan worrying and creating, loving and devoting time to things, only to have them all destroyed while you're not looking, while you're not paying enough attention to recognise how futile living actually is. After that, Clara gave up on the world. Pity that, an eight-year-old deciding that the world had nothing to offer except heartache and destruction.

"Come on, Lancashire." The muffled voice of Mystery Man dragged Clara's mind of her memory and she nearly bashed into him when he stopped moving. Stopping just short of her feet hitting his, Clara took a moment to catch her breath, pretending to not notice his stare.

A cooling breeze blew over them and Clara shivered in her hoodie, reluctantly releasing Mystery Man's hand from her own. She folded her arms to her chest, feeling the pattering of her heart hum in her chest, convincing herself halfheartedly that it was just the running causing the erratic beat and not the mysterious stranger trying to drink her in with his eyes. She stepped back briefly only to have him take one step toward her. She did it again and again just to see if he'd follow. And without pause, every time she moved, he moved. In perfect synchronization as if it were a practiced dance between two old overs. Clara had to shake that comparison from her head, the unbidden image of him and her sweating for entirely different reasons blasting her brain.

Gathering her head, Clara finally met Mystery Man's attentive gaze. "Care to tell me where we're going?" She asked confidently, surprised at the lack of nervous twittering her voice usually held when speaking to people other than her grandparents and Craig.

Mystery Man shrugged casually and shot her a half smirk. Despite the adrenaline pumping through her and the questions clouding her brain, Clara still found it possible to go weak in the knees at the sight of his upturned lips.

"I figured we'd wait for them to find us." He whispered finally, his breath tickling her skin with its closeness.

Clara scoffed and Mystery Man looked at her with confusion. "I'd rather not die tonight, sir. Could you please either take us wherever we're going or let me leave?"

Mystery Man dropped his playful smirk but refused to look away. "I'm waiting for something," he said slowly, his smooth voice gruffer all of a sudden.

"I don't think an alien spaceship is coming tonight. They'll have to beam you back up tomorrow," Clara muttered lightly, but her nerves tingled when Mystery Man looked at her with newfound appreciation. "What?" She asked, a breathy moan if nothing more.

"Nothing, nothing. You're right. We must hide." His words came out quick and he reached for her again, his hand squabbling in midair as Clara's arms were still wrapped around her own body. Sighing, she let him take her hand again and felt the whoosh of elation pulse through her as he picked up speed.

They passed several more beach huts before Mystery Man stopped almost as abruptly as last time, with Clara still finding herself seconds away from crashing into his tall body.

Skidding, Clara frowned at him. "Warn me next time, please. I'd rather not risk breaking anything with my supposedly pointy chin again."

Mystery Man grinned at her, eliciting a hot flash so intense Clara worried for a second that she was either six months pregnant or menopause was hitting early. "This is it," he said through the smile on his face, pulling a key from his pocket and walking up the hut steps. He twisted the key in the lock for a moment, jiggling it left and right, and the padlock clicked open. He pulled it off, pushing the door open all the way and leading Clara inside. Turning back around, Mystery Man bolted the door shut from the inside, pulling the door a bit to presumably check it was properly locked.

Clara turned and saw that the place was spacious with no signs of anyone actually having used it before. It smelled like chemicals and aftershave. The black and white tiled floor was spotless, no sand or dirt anywhere in sight. There was a curtain hiding the kitchen portion of the hut and Mystery Man spared no time with showing her around before he pushed it aside and went in. Beyond the curtain stood at least an entire beach hut worth of more space.

Blinking profusely while pinching herself painfully on the back of her hand, Clara entered the extra room and turned around to face her captor.

"What is this?" She asked. He didn't answer, he was fiddling with the curtain. It'd caught on one of the rods and wouldn't budge. Clara moved toward him and as if he could sense her behind him, he turned abruptly and looked down at her. Fighting off the swarm of unrecognizable emotions whirring within her, Clara frowned. "I can help with that."

Mystery Man eyed her curiously. "How?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Clara rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Lift me up and I can help. You're no tall enough and I'm definitely not tall enough," he sniggered at that, but she ignored him and went on talking. "So, put your hands on my waist, lift my feet off the ground, and together we can pull the damn curtain from the rod."

Seemingly mulling over the idea, Mystery Man shrugged his shoulders all noncommittal-like and motioned for Clara to go in front of him. She obliged his request and braced herself for the feel of his large hands encasing her tiny waist. She knew the moment he touched her not from the indent in her skin, but from the way the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and gooseflesh made its way down her arms and legs. Shivering slightly, and praying he didn't notice, Clara's feet left the ground and she reached up to yank the curtain closed. It took less than ten seconds and before she knew it, Mystery Man was plumping her back on the ground, his hands leaving her clothing in fear of catching fire.

"Teamwork. I like it," was all he said as he turned away from her. Clara saw a flicker of something in his eye, something that looked a lot like when her father would look at her mother when they were younger and thought Clara didn't know anything, but he moved so fast that she could only think she was dreaming it up.

"Well," Clara began in a low voice. "I figure if we're going to be on the run together we should establish some sort of trust in each other."

She heard a mumbled 'yes' as Mystery Man occupied himself with clanging and banging in the too large beach hut. Clara watched him unabashed as he reached into cupboards and pulled out random things like a few old looking mobiles and some stacks of paper. Nothing that belonged in cupboards. Keys sprinkled the countertop and Clara wondered what on earth she had gotten herself into.

Deciding to break the not awkward silence he seemed content to keep, Clara went up to him again and tapped his shoulder. His body twisted at lightning speed and he turned his eyebrows up. Clara laughed, embarrassed at interrupting him, but he didn't move a muscle, he just continued staring at her, waiting for her to speak. "Right," Clara sighed, putting one hand on a counter and the other on her hip. She closed her eyes, willing to get a grip on the situation at hand. "Speaking of being a team," she continued, not looking him in the eye but rather following every other inch of his face, "can you tell me what we're doing?"

No sooner had the words left her mouth when Mystery Man smirked and blindly pulled one final thing out of the cupboard. The ground magically, or maybe not so magically, disappeared from under their feet. Clara's scream got lost somewhere in her throat and before she could comprehend what was happening, she slammed into some hard surface. Her eyes watered from the amount of dust particles in the air, but it only took a small moment to realise nothing had broken. It wasn't that far of a fall.

She looked around curiously, chiding herself for not being more frightened but not able to force herself to feel fear. "Where is this?" She asked, her voice croaking in desperate need of water.

Something moved in the shadows, approaching her quickly. "Drink this," it said, handing her a water bottle. Mystery Man. "You probably inhaled some sand on the way down." He plopped down next to her and Clara could feel his body heat radiating off him. "Are you hurt?" He sounded genuinely concerned and Clara smiled, shaking her head to indicate that 'no, I have not been hurt.' She gulped at the water and gave it back to him.

"Are you?" Clara asked in return, looking him up and down. His trouser leg looked a little ripped and there was sand covering most of his body. His eyes locked on hers when she wasn't paying much attention and she lost herself in the darkness of them. He bore into her, searching her soul for something. She could almost feel him nudging her heart.

But then he turned away and laughed numbly. "Just my ego. I've never been so disarrayed in front of a woman before. I always wanted to try that, though." He craned his neck and stared up at the closed ceiling. It must've been some sort of trapdoor.

Fumbling for the right words, Clara stood up and brushed the sand off her clothes. Mystery Man followed her up, wobbling a bit on his legs and leaning in her direction. He stumbled back a few steps and Clara couldn't help the giggle that escaped her throat.

He frowned playfully and Clara smiled back. "Sorry," she said, trying to gather the courage to ask some questions. Taking a deep breath, she decided to just shoot off everything in her head. "So, who are you? Are you a spy? A wanted man? Because I wouldn't put it past you to be some sort of criminal. Or are you an alien? What are you doing? Why's the government chasing you? Why did I run away with you? Are you going to kill me? Are _they_ going to kill me? Why was the hutch two times the size of a normal beach. . ." Clara didn't get to finish her last question because in all the daze of words spilling out her mouth, Mystery Man had swiftly stepped in front of her and was currently cupping her mouth with his hand, muffling any sound she might attempt to make, words dying on the tip of her tongue.

A shiver tingled her spine and she caught Mystery Man smirking. She pulled away from him and he held his arms up in defense, still smirking. "I'm serious," she said weakly, clutching her hips.

"You're seriously asking if I'm an alien?" Clara looked at him, her face morphed into one of confusion. Had she asked him if he was an alien? His laughter disturbed her uncertainty and she felt anger begin to boil in her blood. "No, Lancashire, I'm not an alien."

A sneer dripped from her mouth and she had no time to bother apologizing for it. "Well, thanks for clearing that up, Mystery Man. Could you tell me what you are instead? Or maybe promise me that you're not going to murder me in this creepy underground cave? Or, perhaps, because I'm feeling lucky, could you tell me what the hell we're doing?"

"I like angry Lancashire. She's sexy," Mystery Man bit out between clenched teeth. The words he used and the manner he said them in puzzled Clara, but she couldn't deny that they still propelled an unfamiliar, wanton-like fire through her veins.

Pushing any impure thoughts away, like Mystery Man pushing her against the wall and having his way, Clara cleared her throat. "I don't like being angry at strangers. Just tell me what we're doing, please. I literally abandoned my life, my only friend, my job, everything, just to follow you. And now we're in some underground cave with barely any light and it's late and I'm tired."

Mystery Man started walking her way, a menacing smile playing at his lips. Clara gulped back her words and shuffled back and back and back until she hit the sandy wall. Mystery Man stood in front of her, his body curving against hers like it did in the pub, his flesh so close to touching hers that every nerve ending in her entire body ignited and sparked.

"You're not tired, Lancashire. Don't lie to me. That wouldn't be getting off to a very good start, would it?" He asked, his nose brushing against her collarbone, breath leaking beneath her shirt. She couldn't say anything back. All she could do was pray that her body stopped reacting to his like it was, but she knew that request was futile. "You're thrumming with adrenaline. You love that I took you away, swept you off your small feet. You're tired of living here, in this place day after day. You need an adventure. And I'm giving you the opportunity to go on one." His lips grazed the base of her throat and she could tell he heard her whimper because those same lips curved into a smile that ghosted her flesh.

"Tell me you trust me," he said. It was no question, he was telling her, warning her, forcing her, to trust him. To admit it, to just spill the truth; no matter what, and for some unknown reason, she trusted this man.

She groaned in frustration (but also in overwhelming excitement) and turned her neck which was a bad idea because it gave his lips the perfect opportunity to press against the tight skin of her pulse point. Clara could feel her heart rate pick up against his rough mouth and she heard the smacking sound of his lips leaving her neck. He grabbed her chin delicately and turned her head to look at him. He captured her gaze and refused to back down until she said something.

"Answer me this, Mystery Man," she mumbled, wishing he weren't standing so close. "Why me?"

He chuckled, the sweetest sound Clara had ever heard. "Why not?"

Clara exhaled and placed a gentle hand on his scruffy cheek, the needles of hair pricking against her palm. If she weren't so preoccupied with getting her thoughts in order she might have recognized the slight shift in his head as he leaned against her hand. "I trust you."

Mystery Man didn't smile this time, instead he just stood there, looking at her with beautiful eyes that seemed so lost and bewildered and hurt. Her voice caught in her throat when he leaned in closer, his breath escaping his lungs and dancing around her lips. She tingled with anticipation, sure that he was two seconds away from kissing her. Her eyes closed on instinct, her pulse quickening dramatically and sweat leaking from her pores, as she braced herself for the touching of flesh that never came.

A shrill buzz destroyed the connection with harshness and cruelty and Clara literally could not stop the small cry that escaped her when he pulled his body away. His cheek left her hand and she finally got an opportunity to breathe.

The buzz still sounded off, hitting the walls and vibrating Clara's bones. It was a phone. How'd they get service down here?

Mystery Man closed his eyes momentarily and Clara jumped when he bashed his fist into the wall. He immediately pulled it back and flexed his knuckles, looking at Clara and then to his bloodying hand in shock. Clara rushed to him and took his hand, watching his mouth open and close repeatedly.

"I did not think it would hurt that much," he said when Clara brushed her fingers against the scuffed knuckles.

Smiling, Clara looked at his pocket. "You gonna answer that?"

Nodding his head, his mouth still hanging open, Mystery Man pulled the phone out of his pocket and pressed the ANSWER button. He held the mobile to his ear and Clara could hear the muffled voice of someone screaming.

..1..1..

**_The__ Doctor_**

The Doctor, who usually appeared more than capable of everything and anything, stood next to Lancashire with a bloodied fist and an Oscar-worthy expression of pain on his face, listening to Amy prattle on and on about how utterly stupid he was for bringing a civvy into this.

He held the phone away from his ear, delighting in the feel of Lancashire softly rubbing at his cuts, and tried thinking of a good excuse. He could go the easy route and say he just wanted to fuck her, but that's no real reason because he didn't have to run away with women to get them in bed. He could use the excuse he did with Lancashire, tell her without a doubt that the Torchwood team was chasing her too, but Amy would never believe that.

His brain stopped working momentarily when Lancashire's finger grazed a sandy cut and he flinched, watching her lips mouth 'first aid kit' and her eyebrows go up in question. He pointed to the chair in the corner and whispered, "Under the chair."

She nodded, letting go of him and going to grab the kit. Without the distraction of the wonderful woman he'd stolen he turned his attention back to Amy. "I'm a civilian too, Pond." Might as well go with the obvious truth here. The Doctor was no special agent, despite what Lancashire might believe. That did sound a hell of a lot sexier than freelance journalist though. Maybe he'd just never tell her who he was. But he had a feeling if he wanted her to follow him the whole way he'd need to at least not lie.

"Maybe so, Doctor, but you're a trained civilian. This is a girl from a pub with no life experience to her name. A rich kid who left her grandparents for the real world and ended up getting nothing in return. Leave her there, Raggedy Man." Amy sounded angry. Usually The Doctor liked getting her pissed off, but right now she was trying to ruin his plans. Even if he didn't know what plans he had.

"She's staying," he mumbled quietly when Lancashire returned with some rubbing alcohol, germolene, and gauze. He gasped when the alcohol hit his skin and didn't miss the small smirk on Lancashire's face.

"Oh, don't tell me she's doing something to you while you're speaking to me, Doctor. I thought I told you not to do that. I do not want to hear you getting sucked off again. It was bad enough the last time."

The Doctor could imagine Amy's scrunched face, her left hand rubbing at her tired face, the wedding band constricting her finger sliding painfully against her soft skin. "Oh, yes. She's got her mouth around me and I'm getting there quick, Amy, so tell me what you want me to do before you end up hearing some more obscenities." Lancashire glared at him and opened her mouth to speak, to tell him off, but The Doctor shook his head and she surprisingly didn't say anything. She just stared daggers at his dick instead. Or maybe it was his feet.

"You are a disgusting man."

The Doctor let out a high pitched laugh. "Relax, Amelia, she's tending to my wounded hand. I had a bit of an accident with a wall." Lancashire glanced up at him and blushed, a rosy glimmer of powder on her perfect porcelain face.

"Did it insult your hair?" Amy asked, all the mock present in her tone.

"Will you just tell me what you want me to do, Amy?" He blatantly ignored her comment and continued to stare in amazement as Lancashire smoothed some pink cream on his skin. All the pain was gone.

Amy sighed very loud in his ear. "Fine. She can stay." The Doctor was about to thank her kindly, but she interrupted any words he might have said, "But remember," she said in a low voice, her accent becoming more pronounced the angrier she got, "if she dies, it'll be a lot more than some sandy cuts on your hands."

The Doctor's breath gushed out in a billowing smoke, Lancashire's hair flowing away from her face. All these questions started in his mind and he couldn't finish thinking one before another made its way along.

One stood out from the rest, though. One scared him more than anything else on the planet. More than if he had a thousand River Song's chasing him down with guns and spooky technology. What if he got her killed?

Could he ruin her like this? Take her perfectly normal life away just for his own pleasure? What did he even want from her? Why did she excite him the way that she did?

It took him a moment to realise Lancashire had stopped touching his hand. What was once covered in grit and blood was now bandaged up perfectly by dainty hands that had moments ago been holding his face.

Without thinking, he spoke, breaking the precious silence with his question. "Run away with me," he breathed, pain engulfing him for unknown reasons.

Shock plastered itself on her face; her eyes widened, her mouth dropped, her pulse quickened against her throat. Her gaze switched between his eyes, popping from one to other at lightning speed. She was holding her breath and he was getting worried.

He shouldn't have brought her. It was stupid. Hormones or something were fueling his brain when he asked her to follow him. Maybe it was the alcohol. But that didn't make sense because he hadn't actually gotten the opportunity to order anything that night. Yesterday night. It was well past midnight now. He started to frown and look away, but Lancashire's hand shot out and braced against his chest, right over his thumping heart.

"I thought I already said yes." Her call was sweet, sweet music. It calmed him, soothing over his broken heart and aged face. Gone were his worries. He shoved the thought of anything happening to this wonderful woman before him and brought his hand up to clutch hers.

More now than ever he wished he'd never gotten involved with Torchwood. He wanted to stop running, to tell this girl all of his deadly, dark secrets. The Doctor wanted to stop moving for five seconds so he could enjoy the warmth in her beautiful melted chocolate eyes, the smoothness of her hand, the trust in her voice.

"It'll be dangerous," he said softly, lacing his fingers with hers.

She smiled coyly and laughed a playful laugh. "I've been safe all my life, Mystery Man. Take me away with you."

Lancashire was begging him. He didn't even try to fight off the ridiculous grin that threatened to tear his mouth apart. "Okay," he said quickly, removing his hand from hers and going over to his map. "First order of business, you can stop calling me 'Mystery Man.' The Doctor, nice to meet you," he held out a hand to her and she willingly took it. He reveled in the way her soft skin slid around his calloused flesh.

"Doctor what?"

The Doctor stopped dancing around his map and looked at her magnificently, dropping her hand. "Okay, that's a. . .first." He rubbed his forehead and frowned. "No matter. Doctor nothing. Just, The Doctor."

Lancashire kinked an eyebrow. "Just 'The Doctor'?" She asked using air quotes.

Scoffing, The Doctor folded his arms. "Not 'just The Doctor', Lancashire. _The Doctor_." He dragged his name out, trying to see if she'd get it. If she'd understand. She stared blankly. "Do you not know who I am?" He asked, mock hurt lacing his voice.

"Should I? Seems awfully forward. I know you come to the pub a lot," she said thoughtfully, shrugging her shoulders.

"But you've never heard my name before?" He asked more clearly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Never. Are you a spy? Some MI6 member who took down some powerful terrorist or something? Like Deepthroat? Wait, he was CIA, wasn't he?"

The Doctor couldn't be sure if she was messing with him or not, but decided to interrupt her before she got too carried away again. "Have you ever read a newspaper? A magazine?" His eyebrows were to his hairline in disbelief. This girl, this spitfire of glory, had never heard of him.

She laughed a little, her hands landing on her hips in defiance. "No, I've never done such a thing. I like to stay incredibly ignorant." The words splattered out like fire and he felt himself catch the flames.

After a moment of mutual silence, both parties just staring at each other with wide eyes, The Doctor decided the truth was better than nothing. "I'm a freelance journalist. One of the best, actually."

"Oh, a freelance journalist? Interesting." She brought a hand up to rub her chin as if she were thinking over his words, digesting them and whatnot. "And you're being chased by the government? You must have really pissed them off."

The Doctor liked - no, loved - the way she made everything into a joke. Never had he met anyone who so easily captured the seriousness of a situation but who pressed all the worry away in place of a bit of humour. It was a refreshing change.

"You've no idea, Lancashire. And it's more of just a branch of the government. Well, a branch the government doesn't really know exists." He laughed, an embarrassed sound, and rubbed the back of his neck. The Doctor didn't understand his actions. When the hell did he get nervous? Never. Well, maybe once. But that was a long time ago.

Clara let off a small smile and it shone like glory in The Doctor's eyes. She was shy. Good, that made two of them. "Clara Oswald, Doctor. You don't have to call me Lancashire."

There she went again, completely ignoring the fact that he was being chased by a secret government organization. "Clara. I like that name. It suits you. Do you know what it means?" She shook her head slowly. "Bright and clear. Like the sun." Now it was his turn to blush furiously when Clara's giggle hit his ears.

"Now that we've got the formalities out of the way, Doctor, mind telling me where we're going?" Clara pointed at the map by their feet and followed The Doctor's movements when he sat down on the sandy ground.

He spread his hands along the paper, tracing the red X that marked where they were right then, Hunstanton, and a trail in blue lead the way to Frinton-On-Sea. "Frinton," he said, smiling when Clara's face brightened.

"I've never been," she admitted, touching the map and dragging her finger against the blue line.

"You'd love it, I'm sure. I've got a safe house above a shop there. That's our first stop. It should take them a little while to figure out where we're headed, so maybe we'll have three or so days to relax." He smiled confidently at his plan and imagined what it would be like to spend more time with this wonderful girl.

Clara dipped her head low and stared at the map, her lips mouthing whatever county she saw. The Doctor's breathing went ragged and he tried taking deep breaths to help calm himself down.

He was just watching her lips open in breathy whispers when she actually spoke aloud. "Who were you talking to?" Clara looked at him from underneath her eyelashes. "On the phone, earlier." She clarified, looking back down at the map and waiting.

"My boss, Amy Pond," he replied after a loud silence.

She peeked up again, only this time she brought her entire head and stared at him shamelessly. "Just your boss?"

The Doctor frowned, a crease that would soon become permanent marring his forehead. "Just my boss," he confirmed, a gruffness added to his voice.

"Does she know you're in love with her?" The Doctor choked on nothing, his eyebrows flying to his hairline. He bashed his heart several times, fearing that it had stopped working. "Or," Clara continued, clearly unfazed by The Doctor's uncomfortableness. "Does she at least know you _think _you're in love with her?"

As a journalist, someone whose job it was to write with eloquent, endearing words, The Doctor was not a man who lost the ability to speak often. During his time with Clara Oswald he would have enough of these moments to last him a few hundred lifetimes. This marked number one.

He spluttered incoherent mumbles for a minute before frowning again. Clara didn't look smug, just curious. Genuine curiosity as to his relationship with Amelia Pond. His boss, his creator, and, once upon a time, his everything.

"You don't have to tell me. I already know the answer," She said in the friendliest, most understanding tone he'd ever heard.

The Doctor huffed and finally found his voice. "You already know? How? I was on the phone for two minutes. And she was yelling at me." He had gotten up and was pacing, his arms flying every which way, the pain from his fight with the wall gone.

Clara got to her feet and sighed. "You talked to her like you lost her. Even though she was just on the other line. She yelled at you, but you liked it. You like it, love it even, because it gets some emotion out of her. And anger is better than nothing, right? If you can't get her to love you, might as well get her to hate you."

The Doctor laughed scornfully and shook his head, tapping his foot against the sand until it blew up in a dusty cloud. "And here I thought I was the one with a degree in psychology." Without meaning to, The Doctor, who made it a point to _never ever_ share intimate details about himself, had just told a girl he'd known for less than a day, despite their month of flirtatious glances, something intimate about himself.

But Clara didn't start asking him questions, she just smiled sweetly and said, "You don't need a degree in psychology to read people. You just need to be alone long enough."

Those words, they sounded so incredibly sad. He wanted to run to Clara, hug her, kiss her, squeeze all those thoughts from her head. He knew that she'd never had anyone outside of family and that burly man Craig love her, but he didn't realise just how alone she was.

Of course, though. He saw it all now. The shyness, the trembling. It wasn't him. Well, it was, but not _really _him. Just people in general. She was afraid of them because they'd never been a big part of her world. She seemed to take it with stride, focusing more on the ability to watch people instead of wishing to be them.

"Astronomy."

Clara's voice disturbed The Doctor's thoughts and he raised his eyebrows in her direction, waiting for clarification.

"I have a degree in astronomy. The stars, gotta love 'em."

An eye for an eye, The Doctor mused. He'd shared something, she'd shared something.

"Why are you working at a pub?" He asked the obvious question without his filter on, regretting the words as soon as they abandoned his mouth.

No hurt flashed in her eyes as she answered and The Doctor could breathe again. "I only just graduated this month. That's probably it." The Doctor smirked a little. Now he knew her age as well.

There was no way he was going to tell her how old he was. No way.

"If we make it out of this, I'm sure you'll get the greatest job in astronomy." The Doctor heard Clara's breath stop its trek out of her lungs and immediately chastised himself for saying that.

"Do you think we won't make it?" She asked quietly as if her voice were going to break.

He strode over to her and grabbed her hands, placing them either side of his face. He bent so he was level with her and bunched their noses together. "Listen to me, Clara," he begged, willing for her eyes to catch his. When they did, after what seemed like an eon of waiting, The Doctor exhaled slowly. "You and me, we will get out alive. You're strong, I can tell."

"You only just met me, Doctor," she said, but he could hear the doubt in her own words as they tumbled out her head.

"You don't believe that, Clara. And besides, I've got the degree in psychology. I can read people ten times better than you."

"You don't strike me as someone who's been alone for too long. I've seen you pick a new girl at the pub almost every night," she teased and The Doctor smiled despite the heavy nature of their talk.

"I've been alone longer than you, Clara. Add a psychology degree and a masters in journalism and you've got a bona fide mind reader." He laughed at his own joke to clear away the tension and his heart fluttered in his chest when Clara's giggle was not far behind.

Pulling away from her, The Doctor bent down and started refolding his map, making sure to rub all the sand off. He could see her moving around the space from his peripheral and decided to indulge himself by getting a good look at her. Knowing she was carefully watching him as well did nothing to stop him.

Dirt and sand covered bits of her clothing, but other than that she was fairly clean. Her wet hair was still drying, the dark brown waves cementing themselves. A Reading Festival sweater hung off one shoulder and he saw the creamy skin underneath shining in the dim room. Her lips were perfection, he had no other word for them. They were the description of bow lips. Unbidden images of him kissing those lips made their way to his head, but he didn't will them away. Looking at her, studying her, it was doing funny things to his head. Only once before had he gotten so carried away by simply looking at a woman. He needed to stop now before his want got too out of control.

"Reading Festival. Did you go?" He was surprised by the sound of his own voice. The words had been playing in his head and he didn't realise he'd spoken until Clara answered.

"I'm not one of those girls who buys things with words on them just to look cool," she retorted smoothly.

The Doctor smiled at her snappiness. "I'll take that as a yes." He got up from the floor and put the map back in his briefcase. "We should probably go back up. I don't know about you, but I don't want to sleep down here tonight."

Clara lifted one side of her mouth and nodded her head, coming towards The Doctor with her duffel bag slug over one shoulder. "Will they get us while we're up there?" She asked, her voice showing no signs of fear.

"Um, nah. I shouldn't think so. They don't know where I am just yet." The Doctor went underneath the trapdoor and jumped until he hit the ceiling, pressing down on the button that released the ladder and opened the door. He motioned for Clara, whose look was molded into one of astonishment, to go up first and waited until she'd made it all the way to start his journey.

He shut the door and turned on the little battery powered lamps that lit up the entire space. Pulling out the sexy screwdriver, The Doctor locked the trapdoor and headed to where Clara was exploring the extra space of the beach hut. He'd tell her later why it was so big. For now she seemed content to just observe everything, her fingers grazing the surfaces. It was nearly three times the size of a normal hutch, with enough room to fit one twin sized air mattress and the smallest "love seat" in the world.

"You can grab the mattress. I'll snuggle on the sofa," The Doctor mentioned when he saw Clara glancing between the two. She turned to him and bit her lip. Oh, God, she was torturing him.

"I'm smaller than you," she glanced him up and down, her eyes trailing a path from his head to his toes. "Much smaller. I'll take the sofa." There was no room for argument in her statement and The Doctor told himself he'd have to get used to having another person with him again. Her personality was something entirely different that he figured he'd never get used to it, but, then again, he didn't want to get used to it. It was nice never knowing what she was going to do or say.

Resigning himself to her demand, The Doctor plopped his briefcase on the chair and went to find his own duffel bag. He'd turned his head for what could only have been ten seconds, but when he got back Clara had changed into sweatpants and had removed her sweater. Damn, she was quiet. He'd have to keep that in mind. A book nestled between her hands, he watched her eyes fly over the words, her mouth absently moving along with them.

"Do you make it a habit of staring?" She asked, looking up from the book. The Doctor, whose arm was on the side of the hutch, stumbled when she spoke. He tripped on nothing and landed on the sofa in a pile of limbs.

"That was elegant," he mumbled, tasting blood. He had bitten his tongue.

He looked at Clara from under his mussed hair and saw her snickering. He frowned and sat up, challenging her with his eyes.

"Sorry," she said breathlessly and The Doctor immediately forgave her. "It wasn't that bad. I'd give it at least a seven."

"A seven?" He asked, touching his chest and scowled teasingly. "I'd give it a nine."

"I subtract points for feeling sorry for yourself. I trip over my own feet all the time, it's nothing to blush about."

Little did she know that's not why he was blushing. No, he was blushing because right in front of him was literally the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he'd ever met in his entire life and he could do nothing but stare. Her body was tight and tense, either from the book she was reading or the predicament he'd put her in, but she still found it in her to smile.

"Ah, yes, sorry. I'm not the manliest man in the world, I must admit. A blush is never too far from my face," he joked, enjoying the scoffing sound that erupted from Clara.

"Says the man with lunatics trying to kill him."

The Doctor pondered over what to say next. Tell the truth or let her think whatever the hell she wanted. When he'd bed girls before and they asked what he did in the line of duty, because Clara was the only one other than that other one who'd had no idea who he was, he just said something cheesy to shut them up so he could fuck them.

Tell the truth. Why not.

"They're not trying to kill me per say. They want me captured, not dead," he said the words slowly, watching Clara drink them in.

"They've got guns, though," she reminded him as she bit her lip again. The Doctor's tongue swiped across his lips.

"Right, yeah, but that's to injure me. They're under orders not to go for the kill shot. They're not really like an army or anything. It's a group of a few people, just parading around with guns."

"Why do they want you alive? Do you have something they want?" She asked, bringing her knees to her chest and hugging them. He watched her tear skin off her lips but not wince at the pain.

"I think it's bedtime. I've already said way too much." The Doctor shrugged his shoes off and disappeared behind the curtain to change into some pajamas.

Through the cloth separating him and the damsel, he could hear her still talking. "I've got one of those faces."

The Doctor scrunched his face in confusion. Yes, she had one of those faces. The one face he feared might be the death of him. "What kind of face would that be?"

"People can't stop spilling their secrets when I'm around. It's like Nick from The Great Gatsby. I don't say much and people think it's an open invite." She sounded relaxed, comparing herself to Nick Carraway. The Doctor wondered if she often thought of herself like that.

He peeked out from behind the curtain and saw Clara's eyes widen when she saw he wasn't wearing a shirt. He wasn't too ripped, but he did have something to show off. Deciding not to flaunt anything, he moved back so only his face could be seen while he struggled to remove his trousers.

"I think you're just Clara Oswald and for some reason, I find it incredibly easy to speak to you," he said, narrowly avoiding slipping again. He saw Clara blush and look down at her book.

"What're you reading?" He inquired when he had changed fully into a plain white t-shirt and shorts, moving out from behind the curtain.

Instead of saying anything or removing her eyes from the book, she lifted it up so he could see the title. _The Great Gatsby_.

"Favourite," she said, her eyes still following every word on the page.

The Doctor grabbed a spare blanket from his bed and tossed it to Clara who shrieked and glared at him but huffed a thank you regardless.

"You're welcome," he sneered playfully. He cleared his throat and Clara somehow got the hint and removed her gaze from Jay's story. "Now, getting down to business, we are going to need to leave in the morning at seven. We've got a train to catch at seven-thirty and it'll take us all the way to Frinton. Travel should be about an hour maybe two and then we'll settle into the loft. Goodnight, Lancashire." He said quickly and quietly, the plans he'd only just manufactured spilling from his mouth.

Clara yawned and nodded her head. "Do you wanna sleep with the lights on?" She questioned, motioning her hand toward the two lamps. The Doctor shook his head and got up to turn them off being careful not to trip on anything on his way back to the mattress.

After he had been down for what felt like hours, sleep finally getting its grip on his mind, Clara's voice wafted to him like smoke, pushing into his eardrums with all the elegance of faery dust. "Goodnight, Doctor."

* * *

_**Clara**_

The first thing Clara was aware of when she awoke was the crick in her neck. She lifted her head from its painfully stiff perch with her eyes still closed and stretched, massaging smooth circles over the bunched muscles. Blinking a few times, Clara saw that she was not sleeping on her bed. Far from it. It was a red sofa.

It wasn't a dream. She had really been taken by a man called The Doctor. Spinning her head, the crick still there but just a dull nuisance now, Clara saw The Doctor was nowhere in sight. Frowning, she stood up and checked to see there was enough room before bending backward to loosen her limbs.

Her hands touched the clean floor smoothly and she enjoyed the painful burn of her stomach muscles stretching. Just as she was about to come back up, the door to the hutch opened. Clara fell down in shock, her spine hitting the ground. She winced, bringing a hand to her back and rubbing at her skin.

The Doctor waltzed in holding a brown paper bag and looking like he'd just stepped out of a fifties magazine catalogue with his tweed jacket, spotted bow tie, and suspenders. Clara stood up and brushed invisible dirt off her clothes. She approached The Doctor, who had yet to acknowledge her, and grabbed the bag out of his hands.

"Hey!" He exclaimed, reaching out to take it away. Clara lurched out of the way, giggling foolishly, and brought it to the sofa she'd slept on last night.

Rummaging through it, she saw he'd gotten them breakfast. "How'd you know I like cheesy scones?" Clara took the container full of scones and picked apart one of them, plopping the crumbling pastry in her mouth.

The Doctor grabbed the bag and got himself a scone, tearing at it much less elegantly than Clara. "Who doesn't?"

Quirking an eyebrow, not believing him at all, Clara continued to eat in silence. The savory treat was the perfect combination of ingredients. They must have been from the local baker. She finished hers rather quick and reached for her book when she noticed The Doctor gulping down his third scone; she didn't try to hide the disgusted look on her face.

"What's the appeal with Gatsby, Lancashire?" She heard him ask through the haze of Fitzgerald's words.

Flicking her eyes from the page, she looked at The Doctor's mouth as she tried to come up with an answer. She saw those same lips move into a smirk. He must have noticed where her gaze landed. A blush crept to her cheeks, but she stared without break.

Sucking in a breath, she spoke. "Fitzgerald writes like music. Like the saddest, most hopeless music I've ever heard."

The Doctor's lips moved back into a straight line and she moved her concentrated stare to his forehead and watched as it creased in thought. "Who's your favourite character?"

Clara wondered why he was asking her these questions, but then she remembered that while he was a journalist, his first degree was in psychology. He was trying to get a profile of her.

Deciding honesty was the best thing in a situation like this, because she needed him to trust her as well, she gave her answer, "Gatsby." The Doctor didn't say anything and Clara knew he wanted her to elaborate. She sighed, but continued on. "He's alone. Nick refuses to admit he's a friend, Daisy leaves him. He dies with nothing. I root for the underdog, and James Gatz is the epitome of underdog."

What looked at her was not the womanizing Mystery Man, but a man who seemed to understand. His features went soft and he rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. "He's my favourite character as well." Was all he said.

Clara looked around for a clock and saw The Doctor's watch lying on the blow up mattress. She reached down and picked it up. It was heavy and cold against her weak hand. An inscription caught her eye as curiosity took over: _Every rose has its thorn_.

"Checking the time?"

Clara jumped when The Doctor slumped next to her, the watch flying out of her hand and landing on her toe. She yelped and could feel a bit of blood dripping from her skin where the watch must've scraped her. Red droplets formed on the white tile beneath her foot and she lifted her legs up to inspect the cut. It stung, but she ignored it and went looking for a cloth of some sort, taking no notice of The Doctor's worried expression.

She dabbed at the small laceration to her toe several times with a paper towel dipped in water and eventually it stopped bleeding. The Doctor was still sitting down when she asked where the bandages were kept and he held a stern face when he pointed to a random cupboard. Ignoring his look she taped her wound and went to sit back down.

The Doctor's body turned in the seat and he held his watch up to her. She took it cautiously, not able to read what his eyes were saying. A small smile played at his lips when he let go of the watch, their hands grazing just barely, but enough to get Clara's blood pumping quicker.

"I assume you didn't get a chance to get the time before I so carelessly startled you into injuring yourself."

Clara tried to hide the blush his voice spread along her cheeks, but she could tell he saw it when he brushed a thumb along the heated pink. Everything stood still as he looked at her, observed her, obviously trying to figure her out with that amazing psychologist brain. She wondered for a scared moment what he might find in her. Would it be good?

_Stop it, Clara. You don't care._ She tried to convince herself, but the way he was intensely scanning her, holding her hostage with just the pad of his square thumb, threatened to throw that whole 'I don't care' attitude away.

"It's nearly seven." The Doctor said suddenly, removing his hand and snapping Clara back to reality. She tried to squash the things his touch made her body do. Her belly quake, her heart race, her toes curl. All those foreign feelings.

Getting up, Clara moved to grab her duffel bag. "I'm going to need to change," she told him as calmly as she was capable of at that current moment in time. The Doctor nodded his head slowly, his eyes once again scanning her entire body. They landed on her breasts for a moment longer than she thought necessary and she was glad her shirt covered her chest because a swoosh of blood rushed to her pale upper torso.

He swung around and hid behind the curtain giving Clara the privacy she requested. She pulled off her clothes and folded them neatly in a pile while simultaneously grabbing at fresh things to wear. Deciding that plane-Jane was a good look when you're on the run, she placed her favourite The Killers t-shirt over her head and slipped some straggly jeans up her legs.

When The Doctor requested to open the curtain, Clara was just buttoning her jeans, not able to see that The Doctor had already poked his head through. "Do you like The Killers then?"

His voice startled her severely, her body convulsing unattractively (she would later find out that The Doctor actually found it very attractive) with the rush of adrenaline.

"Jesus, could you not just pop out of nowhere? You're going to kill me before this secret government agency gets the chance," she said breathlessly, pressing a palm against her heart and feeling it pulse out a beat similar to a heavy metal song.

The Doctor's look went solemn and he whispered in a low voice, "They won't kill you. I promise."

"Hey," Clara cooed, approaching him. When she reached him she daringly put her fingers against his scruff. "I trust you, Doctor. I don't know why or how or anything, but I do." She felt it this time when he leaned into her touch and she fought against the sudden urge to close her eyes and savor the sensations racing in her bones. "Come on then. We've got a train to catch."

The Doctor retreated from Clara's hold on his skin and held up a finger, stopping her from moving anywhere as if she were his dog and he her trainer. "Not until you tell me if you like The Killers."

Clara groaned. "I told you last night that I'm not the type to wear shirts for the hell of it. Day and Age is a spectacular album. Of course I like The Killers," she said motioning to the Day and Age moon emblem on the mostly black shirt.

"I've always thought Hot Fuss was the best."

Startled by his confession (if she remembered correctly, no one actually knew this guys name, so why is he telling her all this stuff about him?), Clara recovered quickly and rolled her eyes. "Well, of course. But they were out of Hot Fuss shirts when I went shopping and I'm not one to buy online because I'm so small and nothing ever fits."

Making an understanding 'ahh' noise, The Doctor turned around and grabbed his stuff. "Ready to head out, oh small Lancashire?"

Clara couldn't help the stupid grin that spread or the subsequent guffaw that followed. She'd never admit it, but she liked it when he called her Lancashire. No one had ever given her a nickname before.

She said that word again, the one she would end up saying a lot more with The Doctor than she ever had in her entire life, "Yes."

..1..1..

The train was rumbling over a bridge and Clara found herself captivated by the scenery below: water glistening in the sunshine, swishing back and forth, carried by the current, crushing over rocks and guiding fish; boats scattered, men standing with rods and bait, throwing their lines into the water, watching the thin, almost invisible thread fly through the air and plop into the water, disturbing the critters underneath the cold water; the sun reflected in the calm portions of the lake, glaring at Clara and making her see stars.

Clara watched the trees sway in the May breeze, the birds floating with the wind, gliding with the clouds. She'd never been on a proper train before. It was always the underground during university and before that she got taken everywhere in a town car driven by a chauffeur. Heights never frightened her and watching the world pass by, craning her neck to catch the most amazing sights, it was spectacular. The train shook on the tracks and Clara wondered idly if she should be worried. Who knew being on the run would be such an experience?

". . .and we can shower when we get there, don't worry. Oh, and I was planning on throwing you off the tracks, just in case you were wondering."

Snapping her head away from the window, Clara gaped at The Doctor, her ears picking up the word "shower". The Doctor smirked at her, clasping his hands under his chin and staring down at her. She straightened herself and pushed her chest out to get her posture just right. Her grandmother always did chastise her for her inability to stay upright.

"I was definitely listening, Doctor, don't look at me like that."

The Doctor, if possible, widened his smirk. "And what exactly did I say?"

"That I can shower when we get to Frinton."

Rolling his eyes The Doctor replied, "That's all you got from my entire speech about Frinton? That there are showers?"

Clara crossed her arms, pretending not to notice The Doctor's eyes flip to her squished breasts before meeting her eyes again. "I also heard you threaten to kill me."

"But you focused on the shower part?"

"Well I know you're not going to kill me."

"Such trust in a man you only just met."

"It's your fuzzy personality, trust me."

"Oh, I do."

They stopped talking then, just stared at each other instead. His eyes quivered and she could tell that he wanted to explore her body. She saw when he noticed the blood blush spread along her cheeks because his smirk became a full out grin.

Just as she was about to ask what he was staring at, the train squealed and then stopped. Clara looked around her, her heart unnecessarily speeding up. A hand gently grasped at her wrist and she turned to look at The Doctor, his calm eyes immediately soothing her worried bones.

He eyed her carefully, his smirk switching into a serious look, but Clara could see the mischievousness behind his eyes as he spoke. "We're here."

* * *

**A/N:** _Still just setup. Sorry, but it may be a couple more chapters until we get to action sequences. But hey, I refuse to sleep until I got this thing done, and now the chapter is complete. As mentioned before, everyone is OOC and the story is AU. I'm not working too hard to keep up with Doctor Who, because who can really do that, but rather I want to tell a story using these two characters who have some of the greatest chemistry I've ever seen. And I watch t.v. too much to be considered healthy, so I like to think I know a bit about chemistry on film. _

_Who else doesn't like Nick Carraway in _The Great Gatsby_? It can't just be me..._ _  
_

_Thanks for reading and stuff. If you liked it, favourite it and follow it and review it. If you didn't, then I am sorry to have wasted your time. Sincerely. _

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

_Until next time - LoveIsATemple_


	4. The Right and the Left in a Green Room

**"I noticed that once you realise someone's watching you, it's pretty hard not to find yourself watching them back."**

**Meg Rosoff | _How I Live Now_**

* * *

**Chapter Three: _The Right and the Left in a Green Room._**

**_The Doctor_**

The Doctor watched her take in the space of the lounge. He watched how her head swiveled on her neck, the skin bunching right by where neck met shoulder. She seemed awestruck by the place. It wasn't much of anything. Far from a Five Star hotel. Hell, far from a Two Star hotel.

There were four rooms. A lounge, a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom. And a hallway. The flat was right in front of the public toilets and just above an leather shop. It was technically two levels, but it was more of a loft than anything, with a hall that met you just as you opened the door and stairs that lead to the actual living space. Climbing the stairs lead to the upstairs hallway and along that hallway were the four rooms. All on the left. Lounge first, kitchen second, toilet third, and bedroom last.

Everything was green. The carpet was sort of olive-y, and it hurt The Doctor's eyes. The single sofa and matching chair were velvety green. Clara didn't seem to mind. Even the wallpaper, the sickly, stained wallpaper, had a slight tinge of lime greenness to it.

He had Amy buy this place when they first started working together professionally. He loved coming here. After a particularly well received article he'd escape and drive to Frinton, enjoying the beach and the people. Away from civilization he could pretend everything was okay; he could get lost.

It took him a moment to realise he was staring at Lancashire and a moment longer to realise she was staring back. "What?" He asked slyly, lifting an eyebrow and trying to stop the grin that threatened to crack his cheeks when he saw her blush.

"Nothing, I was just admiring." She said the words casually, but they made The Doctor's heart thudump in his chest. "The view from this window is spectacular." Her eyebrow cocked up and she smiled mockingly.

"You tease," The Doctor sighed, his pulse still thrumming faster than normal speed. He looked down at his own case and picked it up, walking over to where Lancashire stood by the window. She'd cracked it open and he could smell the sea.

Clara turned to him and he choked back a gasp when her forehead hit his chin. She stepped back, away from his larger body, and he tried not to be too hurt. "How many rooms?"

Smiling now, The Doctor grabbed her bag and nodded his head, an indication that she should follow. He led her out of the lounge, away from the horrible crushed velvet sofa and chair, all the way down the hall to the bedroom.

There was one bed; a queen sized with fresh white sheets and an ugly green thing cast over it that looked like maybe it was trying to be a duvet but was failing miserably. The Doctor set down both their bags and spread out his arms.

"Your room, my queen," he drawled, turning to face her.

Her eyes were wide again. She walked immediately to the window in the room, the one that spread all along the wall and had odd pale green blinds. Daringly, The Doctor watched her climb on the chest-of-drawers and stand up to get a better view.

She frowned. "It's just another building."

"Well, we are on a sort of strip, Lancashire. Buildings left and right, that sort of thing," he had mentioned this earlier while they were on the train, but it was probably when she wasn't paying attention.

"I want to go back to the lounge. There's a street view there." She hopped down and The Doctor moved to stop her from leaving, putting his hand out and gently tapping her shoulder. She went still.

"We need to settle in."

"And I can do that in the lounge. Where there's a street view," she argued lamely, hanging her head so her eyes peered up at him through lashes of silk.

The Doctor chuckled and turned her body around. She surprised him with how easily she gave into his shoves. "Just decide which side of the bed you want and then you can go admire the window all you like."

Her head snapped around so fast The Doctor feared it might fly off her neck. "We're sharing that thing?"

"Would you rather I slept on the floor?" He asked, all mopey-like.

Clara placed a finger on the point of her chin, pretending to think. The Doctor would not admit that he found it extremely sexy. More because it was weird to find a chin sexy than anything. "That's an idea, actually."

"Just pick a side, Lancashire."

"No."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because there's only one bed."

"That's a horrible excuse."

"Because you've always dreamed of sleeping next to the world's most attractive freelance journalist?"

"That just makes me want to vomit. All over the left side of the bed."

He'd caught her.

"So you want the right side?" He asked, pointing to said portion of the bed.

Clara shook her head and gaped at him, "what?" She sounded annoyed.

"You take the right and I take the left. I'll even sleep in your vomit if I must. It's a comfy mattress, nothing could keep me off it." The Doctor waltzed away from her with a lingering smirk on his face and he pretended not to catch her shuddering intake of breath.

"You're insufferable," she whined pathetically, stomping her feet on the ground as The Doctor placed their cases to the right and then left respecitvely.

His smirk spread into a grin. "You say it like you're just finding it out now."

He watched in entertainment as Clara threw her hands up. He was glad he'd invited her along. As long as he didn't remember there were men with fucking guns chasing after them.

The young Lancashire native trudged towards him and he took a few steps back, suddenly afraid for his life. He couldn't help but compare the sight to when he would watch BBC wildlife documentaries as a kid and the graceful lioness would magically transform into some untamed beast on the prowl.

Her hands reached out and he involuntarily flinched, his eyes shutting. What the hell? When was he afraid of a woman's slap? But she didn't connect her fist, or palm, with him. He heard the sound of unzipping and carefully opened his eyes. Clothes spread along her side, neatly folded and all adorning some sort of band logo. The spitfire gathered a couple of items of clothing and spun on her heal. She walked away from him and his look of shock, turning around at the last second for a brief moment and yelling, way too loudly, something about needing a shower.

Then she slammed the bedroom door with such force he was sure the owner of the shop downstairs would be banging on their front door any second. That never came either, and soon enough he heard the sputtering of the shower start. And Clara's scream as she was hit with a stream of constantly changing hot/cold water.

Staring at the door, The Doctor's mind couldn't not wonder what was going on in the bathroom. A sudsy Lancashire, soft brown hair all tangled and wet around her chin (what is it about the chin?), some form of loofah. . .

The Doctor shook his head, half-heartedly willing the images away. His heart had taken to thrumming again and he placed two fingers against the pulse point in his neck, watching a minute pass on his watch and counting the beats as they throbbed through his fingertips. 128 BPM.

This was not normal.

Deciding he needed to fully take his mind off a wet, naked Lancashire, The Doctor dug around for his phone and dialed Amy's number. It rang and rang and he imagined Amelia Pond sitting at her desk, red hair flowing down her shoulders, anger throbbing at the vein in her forehead as she contemplated throwing her phone against a wall.

"Hello?" A deep voice asked.

His heart stung and he attempted to hide the twitch in his voice when he answered, "Rory Pond, how are you?"

There was a sigh the other end of the phone and The Doctor rubbed his face, flinching away from his jealousy. "It's Williams, Doctor, we've covered this. It's always been Williams."

Opening his mouth, The Doctor began to speak, but Rory cut him off, probably already guessing what would be tumbling out The Doctor's throat. "Do you need something?" He sounded tired. The Doctor wasn't surprised.

"Um, just calling to say we've arrived. Best tell the wife and all. Is she there -"

"We?" Rory interrupted again. The Doctor tried not to hate him.

"Yes, we," he breathed.

"You've not had a 'we' in a few years. What's gotten into you?"

"My sexual desire, Pond," The Doctor deadpanned.

There was a laugh, a cackle really. The Doctor was tempted to hang up. "You've never had to drag them along with you to get them in the sack, Doctor. Is she really that pretty? Or did she say the only way she'd put out was if you showed her the life of a man on the run?"

An inexplicable anger, anger he refused to admit was directed at the man the other line simply because he'd badmouthed the brunette currently showering just a few feet away from him, forced its way through The Doctor's veins at a rate F1 racers would be envious of. "Don't talk about her like that," he growled, and then stopped himself. The Doctor didn't care, he never cared.

The man, the man who felt a thousand years older than he was, inhaled deeply and sighed out, rubbing his hand over his face again. "Sorry, no, she just seemed to have caught the attention of Torchwood and I didn't want to risk them getting her."

Lies.

"I'd believe my story better than that one. You never could resist the thrill of the chase."

Rory's words were true, but The Doctor was too prideful to admit that to anyone, let alone Rory Williams. No, Rory _Pond._

"Just - is Amy there?"

"Sorry, mate, she's getting a checkup. Bad stomach pains and whatnot. I tried telling her it's normal, but who believes the nurse when you've got Web MD on hand?"

The Doctor had to laugh. Amy was always a bit of hypochondriac. "Will you have her call me? When she gets back, that is."

"Sure thing, Doc."

The Doctor hung up without another word.

He threw the phone on the bed, kicking his shoes off and climbing on to the left side, settling himself up against the pillows, his back hitting the headboard. Finding the notepad hidden deep within his duffel bag, he flipped through various notes on his current assignment, trying to come up with a catchy and smart way to begin the article. His biggest article yet.

There was an entire section on the illustrious River Song (codename Melody Pond; The Doctor was always quite pleased with that one). Words upon words of description, patterns, and secrets.

_July 12, 2013 (5:14 p.m.)_

_Arrived at Cardiff. Air chilly, sun hot. Visual on the Waterguard. MP has yet to make an appearance. Usual time for appearance at pub: 5:15-5:19 p.m. _

_July 12, 2013 (5:17 p.m.)_

_MP has arrived. Will wait three minutes before entering Waterguard after her. No plans for immediate contact tonight._

As he searched through the various words, written with The Doctor's handy chicken scratch, he noticed the door to the bedroom had mysteriously opened. Keeping his gaze planted firmly on his notes, he saw a shadow out the corner of his eye. Wet, semi-tanned legs, the fluffy ends of a towel, the sweet, sweet smell of mangos.

"You're horrible at being sneaky, Lancashire."

There was a squeal and The Doctor lifted his eyes to see a towel-draped Clara clutching at her bulging chest, said towel having dipped slightly in her shock.

The Doctor nearly swallowed his tongue when he quickly moved his eyes around the rest of her. She was even more beautiful than his fantasies, albeit brief fantasies, allowed. Taller, almost, than when she had clothes on. Water droplets dribbled down her body, landing disorderly on the shaggy green carpet beneath her feet. Her wet hair did in fact cling to her chin (again with the chin?), and her shoulders. Her collarbone pushed against the skin of her shoulders and the base of her neck, the hollow of her throat, was so appealing The Doctor nearly threw away his inhibitions and dipped his tongue right _there._

But he had self control. However dwindling it was.

"Forget something, dear?" He asked, moving his eyes from her throat - he swore it was calling to him - and to her severely pink dusted cheeks.

"Underwear," she squeaked, reaching down again, one hand still gathered at the fabric saving her from The Doctor's ravenous eyes, and grabbing at plain black underpants and a bra that looked like it had The Tweenies faces on its cups. Then she dashed out the room before The Doctor could even come up with a witty, sexually driven reply.

He used her absence as time to calm down, inhaling deeply five times and going through the entire periodic table until he could think clearly without seeing the burning image of an almost naked Lancashire behind his eyelids.

Clara returned to the room moments later dressed in a Green Day "American Idiot" shirt and faded, torn jeans that had been rolled numerous times at the ankles. He stood up quickly upon her reentrance and she jumped slightly, pressing her hand to her chest.

He definitely had something to say, but he couldn't think anything other than that was what he did whenever he got startled.

"You're staring, Doctor."

Clara's voice snapped The Doctor's thoughts and he remembered what he wanted to say. "Right, we need to go somewhere!" He exclaimed, rushing past her and out the bedroom. He heard her light footsteps moving quickly behind him.

"Where?" No arguments, just 'where?'.

"The pub. Very nice place. I know the owner. It's just down the street." He started walking down the steps, key in hand ready to lock the door when they left. "Oh, here," he threw her the extra set. She caught them. "Just in case."

"You mean you slept with her."

The Doctor turned around on the last step, holding his hand to the wall and bannister, trying to figure out how _she_ figured _that_ out. He raised his eyebrows in question, hoping she'd continue with an explanation.

"That was a lucky guess. But now I know what you sound like when you're talking about women you've slept with." She said smugly, walking past him and to the door. "Ready?"

He approached her cautiously, bunching his eyebrows together. He leaned over her and watched her try to shrink into the wall. "Is there any band you don't like?" He asked finally, after staring into her eyes for way too long, pinching the "American Idiot" bleeding heart grenade thing between his thumb and forefinger.

She pushed him back and he straightened, watching her unlock the door and step outside. The sun settled on her skin like it was there just for her, she shone gloriously. He saw her take in a breath, place her hands on her hips, and turn around to face him.

"Probably."

The Doctor smirked at her reply and went in front of her, leading the way.

-O-

The Lock and Barrel pub hadn't changed much in the time The Doctor had been away. There was a sign saying that all minors had to return home after nine o'clock. That was a rubbish new rule, The Doctor thought.

He placed a hand on the small of Clara's back and lead her inside, past the smokers outside talking politics like they knew a thing or two about it. She went willingly and he took it as a good sign when she peeked over her shoulder at him and gave him a warm smile. The slightest lifting of the corners of her mouth. It sent a shiver down The Doctor's spine.

Guiding them to the bar, he plopped on a stool and motioned for Clara to do the same. She struggled slightly, but just as he was about to offer help, she landed correctly next to him.

It was quiet inside tonight; teenagers still in school getting their work done at home instead of getting illegally drunk, old men trudging through work while pretending not to stare at the new temp with big breasts, women at home with the babies knowing that if only they'd been more careful that night months ago they could be at the pub with their friends.

The lights were dimmed, the sunlight faintly receding. Clara's skin still glowed. Her eyes still lit up like his own personal sun.

"Doctor!" Someone called from behind the bar. He turned away from Lancashire's shy face and saw Sally approaching them, an excited smile cracking her lips.

"Sally Sparrow, how are you?" He asked, leaning forward on his chair to encircle the small blonde in a hug. "And where on earth did you hide all your hair?"

Sally laughed in his ear and pulled back, giving him access to play with the straightened dirty blonde strands. "I got a pixie. All the cool girls are doing it."

"I like it. Not as much as the curly locks, but it suits you. Makes you look more grown up."

"Please, I'm only three years younger than you. What are you doing here?" She asked, punching his arm with a closed and tight fist.

Laughing, The Doctor looked at Clara for a second before turning back to Sally's over excited face. "Just visiting, thought I'd bring a friend along." He nudged Clara's side and heard her giggle. He'd have to keep that mind - she had ticklish sides.

Taking notice of the Green Day clad young woman beside him, Sally walked the few steps until she was in front of her. She held out a polite hand and smiled brightly when Clara took it. "And who might you be?" She asked, her tone incredibly and embarrassingly suggestive.

Clara looked at The Doctor desperately, like she didn't know how to answer that. Like she didn't know she was; to him or to herself.

"I told you, Sally, she's a friend." Clara mouthed a thank you and he winked.

Sally looked between the two and nodded her head like she understood. "Ah. But I want to know her name."

Clara laughed, more of a giggle really. It made The Doctor's lips twitch. "Oh, Clara. Nice to meet you, Sally."

"How long are you two in town?" The blonde asked, ignoring a cat call from some teenage-looking boys who'd just walked in.

"A week maybe. Dunno," The Doctor answered truthfully.

"Well, best get you both a drink. What's your poison?" She asked Clara, already preparing a rum and coke for The Doctor.

Clara looked bewildered. "Um," she squeaked, looking behind Sally at the different array of coloured liquids stacked on shelves. "Gin and tonic?"

"Is that a question?"

"What? No, no. Gin and tonic." Clara clarified, enunciating the heavy K sound at the end of tonic.

"Perfect," Sally replied, handing The Doctor his drink and getting started on Clara's order.

He swiveled a bit, swigging some of his dark drink and wincing at it burned his throat, the bitter taste something he'd never quite gotten used to. Well, until he was three drinks in and couldn't remember his own name. Not that anyone knew his real name.

"When can we go to the beach?" Clara asked suddenly, her chipper voice making The Doctor wish he could take her right now.

He smiled gently at her, placing his foot on a rung of her chair. "Tomorrow, Lancashire."

A glass clinked on the wood in front of Clara and Sally raised an eyebrow in his direction. He sighed and rolled his eyes. "A nickname, huh?" She whispered just loud enough that he could hear. He glanced at Clara who took a small sip of her drink and set it back down.

"Didn't know her name when I first met her," he defended.

"You never gave me a nickname and you didn't know my name when we first had _sex_."

The Doctor grimaced, remembering that night well. "Bar wench is a nickname, I think."

"Nah, it's a title. You like her, don't you?"

He looked at Clara again, neck turned away from him and Sally and eyes trained on something The Doctor couldn't care less about. Did he like her? She definitely intrigued him for reasons even he didn't know. But liking her was taking it to a whole new level.

"Maybe I just wanna get her into bed?"

"Did Amy believe that when you told her you were taking Miss Lancashire along?"

He rolled his eyes again. "I don't know why I took her. Look, I need you to keep an eye out for some people while we're here, okay?"

"So you're not just here to see me? Or to sweep some small girl off her feet?" Sally almost sounded hurt.

"Of course I'm here to see you," he chastised loudly admiring the grin that spread on Sally's face. "But I'm also kind of on the run."

"When aren't you on the run?"

"Don't be sardonic with me, young miss. I'm still your senior."

Sally shook her head and tried to hide a laugh. "Just tell me who you need me to look out for."

The Doctor didn't give any information about who they were, he simply slid her a picture of all the Torchwood team after him. Five people, all with fucking guns.

"Right, I'll keep a watchful eye. How've you been, Doctor?" Sally asked sadly, her words melting The Doctor's heart.

Reaching a hand out, he tapped Sally's nose. "Wonderful. Longest time undercover. Just got out a little while ago. How's the husband?" He asked, pointing to the large ring on Sally's finger.

Sally blushed and started fiddling with it. Sally was a fiddler. It was one of the first things he'd noticed about her. "He's at home right now."

"I always knew you'd settle down, Sparrow."

"It's Nightingale now, Doctor. And you'll get there eventually," Sally's gaze drifted to Clara. She probably thought she was being inconspicuous but The Doctor saw everything. He rolled his eyes despite the nerves twitching in his belly.

He and Clara left when the sun did, walking out the pub and into the blackness aided only by various street lamps. He walked behind her, figuring it would be safest. She didn't mind, just kept on going, swaying her small hips.

When they got back to the flat, he was exhausted and she seemed a little tipsy. "How many drinks did you have, Lancashire?" He asked, mentally reprimanding himself for calling her that. He didn't like her. He couldn't like her.

"One," she replied when she fell on the bed. On his side.

"That's my side, lightweight." He stood by the door, crossing his arms leaning against the doorjamb.

"I don't care, I'm sleepy," she mumbled as she started kicking off her jeans.

He tried not to stare.

"Just, roll over." He took deliberate steps towards the bed and nudged her slightly until she had gotten to the right side of the bed.

She didn't make anymore sounds and he chuckled mirthfully when she hiccuped. He noticed she still had on her shoes, so he stood to his full height and wandered to the edge of the bed where her feet were. Her trainers were old and battered, a lifetime must've been lived in these things. He untied the laces, careful not to jolt her too much, and slid the shoes off easily.

After he'd taken off his own clothes and put on some random pajamas, he picked up the sheet and draped it delicately over his own body and Lancashire's. She snuggled underneath it, mouth gaping.

The Doctor made sure to keep a good distance between them as he turned over on his left side away from her. It wasn't long before he joined her in the land of sleep.

O-O-O

**_Clara_**

The first thing Clara was aware of when she woke up was the slight pounding going on her brain. Like monkeys with cymbals had crawled through her ear in the middle of the night and decided now was the perfect time to practice their routine for the "Monkey Band Competition."

The second thing she was aware of was the sound of light snoring.

Clara turned around, blinking against the harshness of sunshine filtering through the window, and saw the body of a man. A half-naked man who was only wearing boxer shorts. A fairly toned half-naked man.

_The Doctor._

Vaguely, she remembered last night. Meeting Sally, ordering a drink, then stupidly drinking all of it. She'd never been able to hold her liquor. Gin was her weakness.

Clara noticed how spread apart The Doctor and herself were. There was at least two bodies worth of space between them. It wasn't like in the movies where the people with obvious sexual chemistry sleep in the same bed despite the protests of either one or both members of the two-person party. Usually those people ended up spooning or somehow draped over each other. And then there would be that awkward morning hello when they detached themselves and either went on pretending neither of them was exploding from sexual desire or they jumped each other right then.

This was real. Not a movie.

She woke up on the complete opposite side of the bed from him, just where she imagined she'd fallen asleep. She was sweating. Naturally, her and The Doctor repelled each other during the night. Too much body heat between them. (And not in the 'sexual' way.) The sheet had been stolen by him. Their gender roles had been completely switched. This was real. And she was kind of wishing it wasn't.

Deciding she wanted to not wake the sleeping bear, Clara slinked carefully off the bed and pressed her hot feet to the cool carpet. Her legs were bare. Great.

She picked up a change of clothes (Queen - News of the World) and the towel from her shower yesterday. There was an obvious ache in her belly, but she wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, hunger, or the smallest part of her (okay, the biggest) that wanted to go back into the bedroom and climb all over The Doctor.

Cold shower. She needed a cold shower.

The shower head in the single person shower stall was blocked in a few places, but it was easier to get constant cold than constant hot. Yesterday, she had been hit with both. She combed through her hair, reminding herself idly that she needed to get shampoo and conditioner if she ever planned on properly combing out her hair.

Her back was turned to the bathroom door when it swung open. She shrieked, spinning around on her heels and slipping backwards, knocking her back to the cold tiled wall.

"Ow!" She yelped as a figure just stood there, his outline the only thing visible. It closed the door and Clara realised she should probably be freaking out instead of worrying about the slight pinch she felt in her back.

The man, it was a man, took a few steps towards her and stopped just short of the door. He didn't move to open it, but Clara, despite knowing the person couldn't actually see any part of her except a blob of tanned whiteness, moved her hands to cover up her exposed body.

"You okay in there?"

It was The Doctor. Of course it was The Doctor. The bastard. She cursed the thread of want that coiled in her belly when she saw his shoulders shake with laughter.

"What do you want, Doctor? I'm kind of busy right now," she said loudly. You had to talk loudly over the screaming of the shower and the banging of construction going on outside the flat.

"We're going to the beach today. I brought your suit. Change into it when you're done."

He started walking away when she remembered something. "Hey!" She called. He whipped around immediately and she felt all exposed again. "I didn't bring a swimsuit."

"No, but I always carry one around with me," he replied smugly. He saluted her, turned around and left, slamming the door behind him.

Always kept one around? Did he usually do this? Bring girls along with him? Small ones like herself?

But no, she remembered a flit of conversation between the barkeep and The Doctor last night. He didn't know why he'd brought her.

That made her feel sick. A good kind of sick. The nervous kind of sick that went along with finding someone attractive. He'd taken her on a whim, a breathless and wonderful whim. She was special. And she liked that.

She finished up her cold shower, regretting it by the end, and dried herself off, tying her hair up in a messy and wet bun. The suit The Doctor had supposedly been just carrying around in case of the weirdest emergency ever was actually a modest one piece. Dark blue, like her sexy dress she'd never worn.

It reminded her of a lifeguard swimsuit. It covered everything necessary, but left a lot of leg and back. She would have to tell him she burned easily so next time he decided to surprise her with a bathing suit he got her one that covered her entire back area.

Slipping the thing on and drying the rest of her body, Clara galloped out of the bathroom and went straight to the bedroom. The door was cracked a little bit and she pushed it open wide, looking down at her feet as she entered. Not because she was afraid of The Doctor, no. Of course not.

When she slipped her eyes upwards after having stepped a few feet into the room, she immediately regretted never having siblings and learning to knock.

Standing in front of her was the bare backside of The Doctor. Her breath caught in her throat as she couldn't stop staring, staring, staring. Muscles, skin, legs, hair, ass. Ugh, she hated that word. Ass. But there it was, right in front of her.

Something leaked onto her chin. She was drooling again.

Coming to her senses, Clara slapped a hand over her eyes and made a pathetic whining noise. She heard rather than saw The Doctor twist around and heard rather than saw his nervous jittering.

"God, Clara, you're quiet as a mouse. I need to get you a bell."

Clara's cheeks burned against her cold palm and she just nodded, not trusting her voice at all.

"Could you exit the room or would you rather watch me change? I'm not fussy." The conceitedness in his voice irritated Clara and she remembered that she was the good girl. Not the one who jumped the bones of mysterious men who flew off with her on adventures. It took Joan Wilder longer than this to sleep with Jack. Not that she was planning on ever sleeping with The Doctor.

She nodded lamely and turned around, beginning her trek out the door.

"Clara look out for th-" The Doctor called, but she had already slammed into the full length mirror. She mumbled an apology, to the mirror or The Doctor she couldn't be sure, and slitted her fingers so she could just barely see where she was heading.

Once safely outside the room, she did her cringe attack dance. Flailing arms, kicking out legs, and shaking head until brain became detached from spinal chord. Her and Craig had come up with that dance back in uni.

Thinking of Craig set a stone on her heart and she wondered how her only friend was doing without her.

Growing up with rich grandparents as your guardian who had fears about Clara meeting up with the 'wrong crowd' lead to a friendshipless childhood of learning how to play chess instead of learning how to ride a bike. When she'd announced her plan to go to university, only her grandfather was pleased. But grandmother's voice was louder than his and they'd shunned her since. The only time they'd had contact was when they would send her money.

Craig was the brother of her roommate, Sophie. Sophie and her didn't hit it off too well (she was more interested in boys and makeovers), but Craig sort of implanted himself in Clara's life after they first met. Four years later and the pair were still inseparable.

It took Clara a moment to realise she was crying and that The Doctor was standing next to her asking what was wrong. His hand had encased her shoulder, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the skin of her neck. He started cooing "it's alright, it's alright" over and over when she refused to answer his previous question.

When a giant sob wracked her body, she collapsed into The Doctor and held on to his waist for dear life, digging her fingernails into his naked sides and feeling his chest hair rough against her cheek. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and took up rubbing her back. She cried until her throat was raw and she thought she couldn't cry anymore. Then she disentangled herself from him, looked in his eyes, saw all the emotion in them and felt like crying all over again. He swiped his thumbs under her lower lashes, gathering leftover salty water and brushed the liquid into her hair.

"It's okay," was all he said.

They didn't talk until the reached the beach and The Doctor asked where she wanted to set their things down. He'd brought a book and she had to admit he looked pretty good in sunglasses and swim trunks. He had a lean stomach that you could see was worked out well, but there were just the slightest lines of muscle peeking against his skin.

She was glad she also wore sunglasses otherwise he would have teased her for staring. That's not to say she didn't catch him ogling her every now and again when he thought she wasn't paying attention. He'd learn sooner or later that she was _always_ paying attention.

The beach wasn't heavily occupied today. It was a school day and the temperature had blown down due to the heavy wind. Clara always liked the wind. The wind and the rain.

Hunstanton's beaches were overrun by shells. You couldn't walk more than ten feet without getting one stuck in the sole of your foot. But Frinton's sand was clean and white and warm.

Settling by the beach huts, The Doctor handed Clara some sunscreen. "Need help with the back?" He asked slyly.

She laughed and he smiled brightly. An odd feeling crept up her spine when she noticed he was smiling because she was. "No, actually. I've got crazy flexibility that somehow spread to my arms."

"Oh, I don't doubt that." She could almost see him wink behind his sunglasses.

-O-

"What are you reading?" Clara asked after they'd been sitting in the sun for over an hour. She felt the need to jump in the probably freezing cold ocean.

He looked away from the book for a moment, his eyes probably taking in every pinpoint of her face, before turning his attention back to the book in front of him. "_Frankenstein." _Clara read out when he lifted the cover so she could see. "I like that one."

She didn't miss his smirk.

A woman with her dog ran past and eyed her and The Doctor as they lazed. She stared longer at The Doctor than her and a weird, protective feeling coursed through her. She stared after the running woman, the woman who was probably ten times as fit as Clara and definitely five inches taller, but still a woman The Doctor hadn't chosen to run away with.

It was her turn to smirk.

"Hey, let's go in the water," Clara suggested, standing up and grabbing at the book. It slipped from The Doctor's unprepared grip and he groaned, reaching out a hand to try to swipe it away. "Nuh-uh. Water. Now."

He groaned again. She liked that noise, it made her blush. When he stood up, she was once again reminded how tall he was and she had the sudden urge to cower in fear.

"What if someone steals our stuff?" He protested when she started walking away towards the glistening water.

She turned her head to look after him. "Who would want to steal your ratty copy of _Frankenstein_?"

"People who love books?"

"People who love books already have _Frankenstein_."

"How do you know?" He asked, jogging to catch up with her.

She turned her head again and faced the sea, feeling her body heat up as he got closer. "Because it's a staple for book lovers. If they haven't got a copy of Mary Shelley's classic, they can't consider themselves book lovers."

"What if they want to become a book lover and the only book they're missing from their collection is _Frankenstein_?"

Clara turned her head as her feet hit the ice cold water. Goosebumps immediately traveled across the expanse of her body. The Doctor was looking at her intently, like he was still trying to study her. She wasn't a bloody piece of art.

They'd stopped moving and were just standing in the water. He was waiting for a reply. "Then you're out of luck, Mystery Man." She crossed her arms over her chest as another breeze picked up and sent her hair flying out of its bun.

The Doctor pointed a playful finger at her and smiled. "It's my favourite, so you better be right about no one wanting to steal it."

He waded his way deeper into the water and she watched his lower body disappear inch by inch. He'd just given her more personal information. She stood awkwardly staring after him until he turned around and called her in. More than happily she drenched herself in the too cold water, her skin more red because of her blush than the sun.

Clara splashed around in the water with The Doctor until her grumbling stomach saved her from getting too close to him. They'd been drifting towards each other since they got in and they were to the point that she could feel his breath on her neck.

"You're hungry," he stated, already starting to walk away from her. She struggled to catch up, her legs not being able to move as easily under water despite her lack of curly man-hair on her calfs.

If The Doctor looked good in just a bathing suit, then nothing could have prepared Clara for how he looked wet and in a bathing suit. Water running down the skin of his stomach, his suit bunching between his thighs, clinging to everything it touched.

"Now who's the one staring?" The Doctor's smugness collapsed Clara's attention and she nearly broke her neck with how fast she moved it to look in his eyes. His beautiful eyes.

_Get a fucking grip, Clara. You do not do this! _

Ugh, but she was finding The Doctor to be more of an exception than a rule today. It was probably because she saw him naked. Yeah, that was it.

He was a man whore. Who wanted a man whore? All he did was lure woman into his sheets and then abandon them the next day. That's not what Clara Oswald was about. She desired attention for more than one night and someone who would hold her hand.

Although she'd never met anyone she wanted to hold hands with more than The Doctor.

"Wipe that stupid smile off your face and take me out to lunch," Clara said, gathering her things off the sand and wrapping her towel around her body.

"You're hungry," he repeated and she looks at him, his pale body hurting her eyes even behind her sunglasses.

"No," she said firmly, stepping the few feet it took to get right in front of him. She waited until she heard his breath catch to finish. "I'm starving."

With that, she twisted around and started her retreat, willing her blush to boil down in the time she had until he caught up with her.

* * *

**A/N: **_Eh, not sure how I feel about it. It was written while I was sick, but I had lots of time on my hands so I figured I shouldn't waste it. Is it possible to have filler chapters this early on? I just wanted you all to get a feel of both Frinton and these characters obvious attraction to one another. It's a bit shorter than the other chapters, but then I realise that those ones are overtly longer than most. If you've got a preference (shorter chapters vs longer ones) please let me know. _

_We met Rory and Sally in this and got a bit of a view into both The Doctor's and Clara's mind. Next chapter hopefully won't be so boring. _

_If you want to tell me what you thought, just write a comment or send me a message. I'd love to hear suggestions or thoughts or complaints or whatever. Unless they're mean. I have a heart and it is easily broken. _

_The line "I'm starving" probably isn't original to what I stole it from, but I always loved the way Blousey Brown said it in "Bugsy Malone" and if you've never seen that film, I suggest you look it up and watch it, or at least listen to all the music. _

_How lame is the chapter title? You can be honest with me. _

_So, if you liked it, thank you kindly. If you didn't, my sincerest apologies for wasting your time. __I promise we'll get more interactions between Clara and The Doc soon enough. I just need to analyze them and figure out how I best want to go around it. _

**_Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING_**

_Until next time - LoveIsATemple_


	5. Body Language Isn't Their Best Work

**"People are screwed up in this world. I'd rather be with someone screwed up and open about it than somebody perfect and ready to explode." **

**Ned Vizzini | _It's Kind of A Funny Story_**

* * *

**Chapter Four: _"Body Language" Isn't Their Best Work._**

**_The Doctor_**

It never bothered him when the dreams started. They almost weren't dreams anyway. They plunged into his subconscious as if he were reliving the moments from afar - watching himself, his memories, play on a screen. Perfect rendition of actual events.

Amy told him they were his sixth sense, the dreams. They were his mind giving him the right tools to write a perfect article, because he could remember everything exactly the way it happened the same way a dancer remembered their steps.

But these dreams were different. They haunted him.

He knew they would. The Torchwood assignment screamed 'dangerous' and 'different' from the beginning.

Amy, sweet Amy.

She insisted he go through with it, that it would change him from being a nobody to a somebody over night. People would remember The Doctor not because he was that guy who wrote that really compelling story on Egypt or that bloke who charmed women into his bed because he was secretly very very lonely. He would be the guy who changed the world as the world knew it. He would bring it out of its old-fashioned ways and bring new light into a darkened age.

The Doctor never could say no to Amelia Pond.

"_Doctor." Amelia Pond sat at the edge of her desk. It was wooden, mahogany he thought absently. New. Her face was stern, it always was when she had a new assignment for him. "Sit." She commanded, pointing to the chair right in front of her legs. _

_If this were a porno, she'd tell him be still and then start dancing around his chair, touching his chest, his hair, his face, berating him for being such a moron. Then she'd stand right in front of him and slap him, then bring his chin forward and whisper some dirty secret in his ear before turning his head and kissing him, all while pulling at his trousers. _

_As usual, this was not one of his sick fantasies. _

_Amelia, always the professional. Always forgetting that they grew up together. That he used to kiss her cuts and hold her hand when she got scared. _

_She sat at the edge of her desk, legs crossed at the ankles, heels so high and pointy she could shove them down his throat and they'd reach his lung, killing him instantly. Eyebrows pinched together, anger following her around like a lost puppy dog. People feared her. Rory feared her. The Doctor? He indulged in her. _

_Amy wore glasses today, her red hair pulled back into a tight bun that stretched her face. Derek Zoolander would not be impressed. She never wore pantsuits, said they made her look old and fat. Dresses were more her thing, and today was no different. A tight blue dress cut off just before reaching her knee and winding up to reveal a generous amount of cleavage (not that The Doctor was looking). Beautiful. Stunning. Seductress. Or assassin. _

_Lights blinked in The Doctor's eyes as Amy started walking away from her desk, the heels of her shoes clicking like a gas stove that couldn't catch fire. He turned his head to watch her as she went to her filing cabinet and gathered a few files. Thick files. _

_When she returned, she went back to sitting on the edge of her desk, leaving her ankles uncrossed this time. She nudged The Doctor's foot with her own and cleared her throat. "Right, it seems I've got a new assignment for you, Doctor. It's been a couple of months since that one on the oil spill and I think you're going to love this one." She started flipping through the files while speaking to him, pretending he wasn't there._

_Looking up, she frowned. "Aren't you going to ask what it is?" _

_The Doctor smiled a wide smile, showing off his almost not crooked teeth. "What is it, Amelia?" _

_Amy rolled her eyes. "God, you know I hate it when you call me that." _

_A giggle, a stupid and childlike giggle, erupted from The Doctor's mouth. She frowned deeper. "You used to love it when we were children, Amelia." He mocked, waggling his eyebrows. _

_Her face remained stone cold and angry. "Well, we aren't children anymore, Doctor. I'm your boss and this is a business meeting." _

"_Yes, yes, all right. Don't get your knickers in a twist. Just explain," he submitted, throwing his arms up and letting them slap down on his lap._

"_Ever heard of Torchwood?" She asked, knowing The Doctor had never heard of Torchwood. _

"_Well, you wouldn't be asking me that with that smile if you knew I had, Amelia." _

_The smile swiped off her face as soon as it appeared, returning her face to the ever-present frown. "They're a secret branch of the government. Prime minister doesn't even know they exist." _

"_If he doesn't know then how are we supposed to know?" _

"_Because I'm good at my job and my job is to know things other people don't." _

"_Right, that's your job. Okay, what's the assignment?" He questioned, sitting up straighter to seem more interested. He kept his eyes trained on the papers in Amy's hands as she handed them to him. _

"_Open and let your mind be amazed," she whispered delicately. The noises were so soft he needed to rethink them twice before his mind properly comprehended what she had said. _

_The files were heavy in his hands and he used his blocky thumb to read through them. Three people were the subject of the files, all scientists and inventors. Hired by the government in secret to create the things no one wanted created. The things no one wanted to know _could_ be created. _

_Jack Harkness, Harold Saxon, and River Song. _

_He flitted through them, scanning birth dates, supposed death dates, birthplaces, aliases, and special skills. River Song appeared to run the whole shebang with Jack Harkness as her second in command. _

_The Doctor's brain didn't have the capacity to understand what toys they'd created. _

"_Okay," he said finally. Amy cleared her throat and looked down at him through her glasses. "What do you want me to do?" _

_Her lips curled into a sinister smile and The Doctor gulped, suddenly afraid for his future. "I need you to infiltrate their system. Get close. Find out what they're doing." _

_Lifting an eyebrow, the Doctor set down the files on Amy's desk and leaned back in the chair, clasping his fingers together. "Why do I have the feeling you already know what they're doing?" _

_Amy's lips pulled even wider. It looked uncomfortable. She twisted and grabbed a thin manilla folder, handing to The Doctor and motioning that he should open it. He obliged, coughing a bit before reading out loud. _

"_The TARDIS?" He said, but it came out as more of a question. He stared at the single paged file. It said nothing more than 'The TARDIS' and listed various nonessential facts about who seemed to have invented it and a random guess at what it did. He scoffed at what it suggested._

_The women grabbed back the folder and gripped it hard enough that her knuckles started whitening, her freckled fingers popping with colour. She leaned forward so that her nose was level with The Doctor's and he had to fight the urge to pull her close and finish her off with his tongue. With her teeth bared, her canines looking more like vampire teeth than actual teeth, she spoke the words that he knew would be the death of him:_

"_The TARDIS. Or, in other words, your biggest bust yet." _

The Doctor sputtered and sat up so fast his head started spinning, the room doing funny, green circles like he'd been put on a zero gravity machine. He lifted shaking hands to his face and rubbed furiously at the memory that decided to capture him in the night. An ache had settled in his heart, the thoughts of Amelia Pond ripping at his hair.

Regret was not something The Doctor liked to indulge in. It hurt to regret, so he tried to always do what he wanted to do without being told to do it. This attitude got him through school and beyond, until Amelia Pond settled back into his life.

He remembered when she cornered him after he'd gotten his Masters. _We could be a team_, she'd said. And a team they were. Sometimes it was easy to forget she was married, but he never could forget how helplessly in love with her he'd been throughout his entire existence. Excluding those two glorious years he collapsed into another human being. But that was even more painful to remember than Amelia Pond not being his.

He'd met Amy at a park when he was nine. She'd fallen down in a puddle and he helped her up, taken her home. She lived three doors down from him and was two years younger. After that, they went to the park a lot until it became too uncool, and even then they still went there at night to drink and smoke the cigarettes she always liked more than him. He swore that's why she constantly had bags around her eyes now. Even though she'd given them up when she and Rory got married.

Life is a difficult thing to go through without people to help drag you along. When he lost her to university, to Rory Williams, he almost couldn't survive anymore. It'd been years since they spoke when she propositioned him for a partnership and since then he'd never regretted a thing.

Until the Torchwood assignment.

Something sighed next to him, pulling him cruelly from his devastating thoughts. A small brunette turned to face him in bed, a worn book tumbling off her stomach, trapping itself between her side and the mattress. She was still asleep, her bow lips parted ever so slightly as air whistled through.

Sharing a bed for the past few nights with Clara had been tough to get used to. He would wake up in the middle night, quite like this, and look over and try not to scream because a stranger was asleep next to him. He'd stare at her for a moment, trying to figure out what was going through her mind as she slept, and then decide it was really creepy to watch a girl sleep. Clara looked relentlessly beautiful when she was asleep, all soft and warm. Like nothing could touch her as she dreamed.

Stupidly, because he was stupid and secretly drawn to her, The Doctor carefully slid a few feet so he cowered over her sleeping form. She was enough to make him forget his nightmares. As long as he overlooked the _Twilight_ness of this new pastime, he could reach out a large hand and discreetly graze her face with his fingers, trace her lips with the pad of his thumb, brush her eyelids, sticky with sleep, with a torn fingernail. Occasionally she'd mumble some words or release a breath contentedly and he'd be seriously tempted to wake her up by pressing a kiss to her lips.

That would be taking it too far, though. To an extra creepy level. One he'd regret.

Although, nothing truly stopped his mind from wondering. Wondering what would happen if he were to throw caution to the wind with a lousy arm and kiss her. Not when she was asleep, but when she was awake and willing. There had been four close calls since they'd met, close calls that wound their way into his daily thought process and had recently begun taking his daydreams hostage.

Every time The Doctor got close to her, his mind did this funny thing where it closed off all the rational parts of his brain. Tied the logical side of him up with police tape and pass codes so he couldn't get to it. He'd stare blankly at her, able to only gape at her marvelousness until she quipped something at him. His snark never got shut down, so he'd bite back and then she'd tear at him so he'd rip her to shreds. He enjoyed the wordplay as much as the next guy, but he was slowly losing patience. With what, he had yet to discover.

Nothing about her made sense, nor did his obvious attraction to her. Did she realise it? That he was so obviously attracted to her? Amy recognised it straight away and he'd only spoken to her on the phone. Sally saw it. Even Rory somehow ended up figuring it out in his own little way.

The Doctor didn't like it, whatever _it _was. He was a bachelor. Always. On the run, always. He liked chasing things, liked things chasing him. He didn't need something dragging on his arm, bringing him further and further from the high he'd created for himself.

He stopped caressing her face and his heart clinched at the whimper that fell from her lips when he did. Deciding to brush just a few strands of hair that had made their way on her cheek to mark his last creepy moment for the evening, he went back to his side. The book she'd fallen asleep reading still poked out underneath her ribcage. The Doctor contemplated for a moment whether he should remove it or not. Clara had yet to fully stir even as he (creepily) touched her face and the book probably digging its edges into her skin didn't appear to phase the young sleeper.

To hell with contemplation.

He reached over with one hand and snagged the book, sliding it slowly out from its manmade cage. She rolled over again, onto her stomach, when he pulled the last edge and he flinched, hoping and praying she wouldn't wake up. They had yet to wake up at the same time in the middle of the night and he was not prepared at all for what would happen if they did. It was awkward enough in the morning and he had that particular problem hiding not exactly well under the covers.

Clara remained asleep, thankfully, and The Doctor took his time to observe what she had been reading. It didn't take long to recognise the old cover. She'd stolen his copy of _Frankenstein, _the little Devil. He smiled despite himself as he thumbed through the worn pages, remembering when he'd been forced to read the book back when he was nineteen for a literature class at Oxford. He made sure he knew nothing of the book before delving deep within its hidden passageways.

For all he knew, Frankenstein was the monster and not the monster's creator. Quickly, he devoured the words, ate them up. His professor was impressed with how much he got from it. None of the symbolism nor any of the themes went unnoticed by the young scholar. The rest of the class hated him for the rest of the semester.

Almost to spite her, The Doctor hopped out of bed and went in search of her copy of _The Great Gatsby._ He hadn't read the book in years and if it was her favourite, he could probably figure some more out about his Lancashire lady by speed reading it before she woke up.

Wait. . ._his _Lancashire? When did Clara become _his_?

The Doctor shook his head vigorously and looked over at Clara as he blindly searched through her bag for the book. Would she mind?

That he was violating her privacy, not that he'd called her _his_ in his head.

Probably. She'd probably mind both.

_Gatsby's _cover caught his eye easily and he strolled back to the bed, sinking down onto the warm mattress and not making a sound as he began reading. He glanced at the clock before flipping the first page and saw the alarm clock blinking _2:19. _He had time to finish before the sun came up.

..1..1..

_**Clara**_

Clara had woken up that morning lying on her stomach with her (well, The Doctor's) book sitting on The Doctor's bedside table. He had already risen and she could hear the shower running as she escaped out the bedroom with _Frankenstein_ to get some breakfast.

As she sat eating, she read and read until the shower turned off. Hearing The Doctor whistling, Clara smiled at how laid back he'd seemed in the past couple of days since they'd arrived. There was no talk of men with fucking guns.

No, now it was all sexual tension and awkwardness.

Two glorious days of awkwardness. Of catching each other in towels or accidentally stepping on toes. That one time she swore something had been touching her face in her dream and she was pretty sure it was The Doctor. Yeah, she couldn't bear to look at him that morning.

Maybe it wasn't as awkward as she thought. Or maybe it was just her. The Doctor didn't seem like one caught up too much in these types of situations, but he oozed calm like she oozed sweat.

"You could've just asked," a voice sounded next to Clara and she dropped her fork. It clanged loudly on her plate and she cringed away from the noise.

Holding a hand to her chest, she saw The Doctor smirking. Naked. Except for, you know, the towel tied at his waist.

"What?" She breathed in confusion.

He pointed to the book in her hand. "It's mine, but it's not like you had to steal it. I would've willingly given it to you."

Clara smiled slightly and raised an eyebrow. "Why don't I believe you?"

"Maybe because we've not known each other very long. Most of my friends know how easily I rent out books. I'm like a library."

"You have friends?" She asked incredulously, cupping a hand over her mouth when she realised how cruel her words sounded.

The Doctor laughed, "ouch, Lancashire. That kind of hurt. You met one the other day."

"Sorry," Clara stood up and grabbed her plate to put it in the sink. "And that was one friend. I have got one friend. You said 'most of my friends'. Like there's more out there." She started scrubbing the pan she'd used to make her scrambled egg in, sudsying up her hands in the process.

She looked over her shoulder to find The Doctor staring at her intently, a hollow look in his eye. "Sorry," she repeated, scraping egg into the sink. "I'm not a nice person, it seems." Turning back to her cleaning job, she felt the presence of someone immediately behind her and ceased all movement.

Breath tickled her ear, fingers danced at her waist. She tried to hide her gasp, but it sounded loud even to her own deafening ears. Leaving her hands in the sink, she remained completely still.

"Tell me about your friend. Craig," The Doctor whispered, his words sending tickling goosebumps along her chest. A furious blush followed their path and her knees started wobbling uncontrollably.

His large hands gripped at her waist and pulled her towards him so that her shoulders slammed into his bare chest. Arms encircled her and she finally just gave in, letting her body relax against The Doctor's.

"Tell me," he said again, quieter, softer.

Moments passed before Clara realised he was speaking to her, and asking her about Craig Owens. She ignored the boiling in her belly and tried to think of something to say. To describe Craig when all her thoughts were crowded by The Doctor and how close she was to him and how good he smelled and how tight he had her strapped to him.

She hiccuped, a trait she'd come to associate with anxiety in the past, and then cleared her throat, hoping that would somehow clear away both the phlegm and her dirtying mind.

"He, uh, he's my best friend," she began and felt The Doctor nod, his chin just bopping the top of her head slightly. Trying not to shiver, she continued on, "we've known each other for about four years. Met in uni. I was his twin sister's roommate. He's always been like a big bear, you know, in more ways than the obvious one. He gives the best cuddles when you're scared or lonely. He sleeps a lot, too. That's why in the flat he's got the room without a window. . ." Clara trailed off, her voice dying on her as she felt The Doctor breathing behind her. She trained her eyes open, refusing to give in too much to his skin.

Clara's body was unfamiliar with the certain sensations running all about her at the moment. It was as if she'd melded with The Doctor. His heart beat erratically into her back and it pulsed her skin. She could almost see her body vibrating.

The Doctor inhaled and Clara turned her head a little bit, trying to see him over her shoulder. He stared at her blankly, like he was unaware of what they were doing. But there was something else hidden behind his murky eyes, something Clara couldn't name but had a feeling it was reflected in her own gaze.

Just as soon as he'd wrapped himself around her, The Doctor stepped back, wobbling a bit. She turned around and watching him recover with a shake and a cough before looking her in the eye again. She felt her cheeks redden severely under his watchful eyes.

"You can call him," he said gruffly, like he had molasses stuck in his throat. He coughed again.

"Uh, who?" She asked after a moment of mutual silence, of staring and glaring and lustful intakes of sharp breaths.

The Doctor smiled and Clara's heart danced. "Your friend. The burly one who's more of a bear than anything?"

"Craig?"

"That'd be the one."

"But I thought I couldn't contact him. Too dangerous or something?" Clara went back to washing her dishes, twisting her neck again to get a better view at the half-naked man in her kitchen.

"Untraceable phones are handy. I've got a bunch. It's just after the breakdown earlier this week and stuff, I thought maybe you'd like to talk to him. Tell him your safe?" His eyebrows went up in question and he put his hands on his hips.

Clara looked away from his intense, sheepish gaze and smiled to herself. She knew if she talked right then, the grin would be evident in her voice, so she waited a few seconds before opening her mouth. "Yes. I'd love to speak to him. Give me a second and I'll be right through."

She could almost hear The Doctor nod his head and definitely felt it when he disappeared. Shuffling from the room over told her he was getting dressed and she tried not to imagine what he looked like unraveling the towel from his waist.

A moment later, The Doctor came back. Clara finished drying her hands and moved to sit at the table, quickly giving the mysterious man a once-over. He was dressed in his normal attire: tweed jacket, bow tie, suspenders, slacks. No doubt he had put shoes on and everything despite the fact that they were inside.

"_Never know when we're gonna need to run, Lancashire." _He'd told her the other day when she asked about that particular quirk. She had shrugged it off and smiled at him. He had grinned back.

"Okay, so here is the phone. Call Craig and Craig alone." He handed her the black, bulky phone with shiny buttons and pressed it to her palm. She thought maybe he held his hand against her a little longer than necessary, but it was gone in a flash and she shook the odd feeling from her bones.

He got up to leave, but Clara reached out and tugged on his coat sleeve. He abruptly stopped all movement. "Thanks, Doctor. For doing this."

She let go and he continued to exit the kitchen, but turned around at the last second and gave Clara a warning smile. "Don't tell him where you are or who you're with. Just tell him you're okay. Do you understand? No other information is to leave your mouth."

The Doctor's harsh words were met with a gaping mouth and a scared nod. His face hadn't hardened at all, but Clara had definitely heard the undertones of a threat. With a smile, Mystery Man left her with the untraceable phone and an unhinged jaw.

Clara shook away the shivers and started dialing Craig's number. Her blood started shaking in her veins as she got more nervous. What would she say? How would she convince him that everything was okay?

It rang a few times before a click sounded in Clara's ear and she heard the shallow breathing of her not-so-fit friend. "Hullo?"

Tears sparked in Clara's eyes and she let out a strange guffaw-like noise, clamping her hand over her mouth. "Craig," she breathed, a wide grin settling in place of her earlier nervous gaping hole.

"Clara?" He sounded exasperated. "Clara, oh my God, where the hell are you? Do you know how worried I've been? I mean, what the fuck? You can't do this to me! Tell me where you are, Clara. Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you? Did someone _take _you? Did they force you to write that letter? Are they holding you at gun—"

Clara cut him off with an angry huff. Craig did always like to get dramatic. "Craig, shut the hell up and let me talk." She bellowed, loud enough that she heard The Doctor stop whatever he was doing. Craig went silent. "Good, are you willing to listen?" She didn't need to be in front of Craig to know he was currently nodding his head like a scared child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. "I'm fine, clearly, as I'm talking to you right now. And I can't tell you where I am, which I know sounds absolutely terrifying, but I promise you Craig, I'm okay. He's taking very good care of me."

She flinched. She'd said 'he'.

"Who's he?" Craig's voice grew considerably louder.

Clara held back a sigh and rubbed her temple. A knock next to her made her jump and she looked up to see The Doctor looking at her smugly, his shoulder leaning against the doorjamb.

"Need help?" He asked, cocking an eyebrow like the cock he was.

A small giggle dripped from Clara's lips and she shook her head.

"Clara, I can hear another man there. Who is he?"

"Craig, he's no one. Just some bloke," she said, sticking her tongue out at The Doctor when he morphed his face into a look of mock hurt. He even placed his hand over his heart. "I'm okay, I told you that already."

"I haven't phoned the police. Should I?" Craig's words shook through Clara and she started viciously shaking her head.

"No, no, no, no, Craig. You just need to calm down. I'm perfectly healthy. Just had breakfast, actually. Eggs. You'd've liked 'em. I made them the way you taught me," she mentioned, trying to get Craig to see she was fine. The Doctor chuckled in front of her and she sent a death glare his way.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled through fits of laughter.

"You're sure you're okay?" Craig asked finally, all challenge gone.

Clara smiled at the man currently choking on his own saliva and felt her heart tug. "Yeah, Craig. I'm okay. Are you?"

"Um, just been a bit worried. Patsy doesn't like me so much anymore. I bet she thinks I kicked you out or something."

"She would never think that. She's smart enough to know I'd get her. It's in our contract, remember?"

"That sloppy piece of paper we scribbled on when we were drunk? I don't think that's legally binding," Craig laughed. The sound warmed Clara's heart even more. She was becoming sappy.

"I'll bet you anything it is. We signed it in blood and everything."

"No, you cut your hand with a letter opener and then smeared it all over the paper. By accident." Craig reminded her and Clara flinched away from the drunken memory.

"Okay, but then I cut you too and rubbed your bleeding wound on the page. Therefore, it's legally binding."

"Whatever, you weirdo," Craig muttered teasingly. Clara almost believed she were with him at the moment.

"Hey, I'm not the weirdo in this relationship. That's you, Mr. "Body Language"-is-the-greatest-Queen-song-ever," Clara reprimanded, remembering one of their earliest conversations involving music. Craig had insisted it was the most wonderful song Mercury ever wrote, hands down. She'd been tempted to squash their budding friendship right then, but decided she needed at least one person by her side. She could look past that particular flaw.

"Oh, it always has to come back to Queen with you, doesn't it? I said that one time!"

"You said it 'one time' in a very serious voice and then proceeded to sing it, word for word, breathy moan for breathy moan. Not your finest hour, I must admit." Clara saw The Doctor looking at her suspiciously and she waved her hand at him. He must have taken it as an invitation because he strode into the room and sat down next to her, leaning his chin against his palm.

"I was trying to make you laugh," he defended. "And if I remember correctly, you almost pissed your pants."

Clara sighed in defeat. "Okay, you got me there. But seriously, that's not their best song. And neither is "Bohemian Rhapsody" so don't go pulling that shit with me again."

"Ha ha," he deadpanned. "Uh, look, Clara, I've gotta be off to work now. Strax's opening the place up earlier today 'cause of the game on. He's expecting a lot of drunken bar fights. Apparently that's good for the business, I dunno." Craig sounded sad all of a sudden and Clara wished she were currently getting ready for work too.

"Okay," she said, attempting to clear all worry from her voice. "I'll speak to you soon. Be good, Owens. No more punching customers."

"I've been warned. Clara?"

"Mm?"

"I love you, you know that, right?"

"Of course. I love you too," she replied, touching her hand to her chest. Something tugged at her hair and she saw The Doctor's hands currently twisting her strands into random plaited patterns.

"Good." And then Craig hung up, leaving Clara alone with The Doctor and his hands and his chin once more.

She whipped her head around, forcing his fingers away. "What are you doing?" She asked, letting her fingers thread through her hair and unraveling his hard work.

"What is Queen's greatest song, then?" He asked, avoiding her question.

"What?"

"Queen, you said "Bohemian Rhapsody" wasn't their best, so which one is it?" Clara couldn't tell if he was teasing her or not. He motioned a hand to her shirt and she saw that she had worn her "News of the World" shirt again.

"Oh, um, I don't know. "We Will Rock You" always gets the blood pumping," she said, immediately regretting her suggestive words when they were met with the equally suggestive raised eyebrows of The Doctor. "Oh, put those away. You're such a dirty man."

He put his hands up resignation. "You're the one who said it, Lancashire, not me."

"Well," she huffed in annoyance. "I just meant that it always makes me wanna dance. Not have sex."

The Doctor leaned in very close, getting their eyes level. A wolfish grin had overtaken his face. "What songs get you in the mood for sex then?"

Clara stared at him, wide-eyed, for a moment before coming to her senses and shoving him away from her. With red cheeks, she answered, "nothing."

"Nothing?" He asked incredulously.

She nodded. "Nothing."

"You aren't a virgin, are you?" He asked.

Without thinking, Clara gasped. Of its own volition, her hand moved up and slapped its way across The Doctor's cheek. She stood up, her hand aching and red (she hoped his face was the same way), and walked out of the room.

"Even if I were, do you really think it's appropriate to ask me that? I mean, we did only just meet, you insufferable asshole!" She spat as she slammed the bedroom door closed.

"_Are you sure you're ready for this, Harry?" _

_Clara heard voices through her murky haze. Sharp pains were shooting down her body, her brain pulsing like she'd been hit with something blunt. Blood tickled her neck and the coppery scent wafted into her nostrils, dizzying her even more. The thickness surrounding her thoughts only deepened when she heard the door creak open. Shadows of men danced around her, she could feel their lust. _

"_I'm sure," a voice replied. The man's hand reached out and touched Clara's hair. She tried to get away from him, from all of these people, but the man, the boy, Harry, snapped at her head and kept her in place. _

"_Just keep her mouth shut. I don't want everyone else to hear. We'll lock the door behind us," one of the bodies spoke, his arm reaching out and slapping Harry on the back. He turned around and the other shadows followed, disappearing out the door like smoke up a vacuum. _

_When Harry heard the click of the door locking, he moved his hand away from Clara's head. She mumbled something unintelligible and he cupped his fingers around her mouth. A thought sparked in her head. This shouldn't be happening. Warning signs, flashing red, blinked in front of her. Wrong wrong wrong. She started squirming, but Harry held her down with his other hand. _

"_Shh, darling, you're okay. It'll be over soon. I promise I won't hurt you," he whispered eerily and Clara writhed beneath him again, feeling his hand clamp heavier over her mouth. "Stop that, or I can promise you it _will _hurt." _

_The pounding in her head got louder and louder as he started unbuttoning her fancy new blouse she'd gotten specifically for her first university party. They popped one by one, revealing more of her pale skin to the darkness of the room. She felt a cold breeze drift across her chest when he yanked the garment off and— _

"Clara?"

The Doctor's voice snapped Clara awake. She sat up in bed, not realising she'd even fallen asleep. The dream, or the memory rather, hung heavy in her mind as she tried to remember why she'd locked the bedroom door in the first place.

Then she remembered.

"I'm not speaking to you." She snapped, crossing her arms over her chest despite him not being able to see her. She just hoped her anger radiated far enough that he felt it.

"You just did, darling."

"Don't call me that," Clara whispered, bringing her legs up and hugging them.

"I have a key, I could break in."

"Then go ahead," she mumbled.

The Doctor took her invitation and she faintly registered the opening of the door, the quiet gasp, the running footsteps, and the questions tumbling out of his mouth.

"I'm fine," she insisted, not believing herself. It'd been months, almost a year in fact, since she'd thought of that night. Now all of her thrown away anger, fear, and depression were crashing into her like freight trains, one by one.

"Did I upset you?" The Doctor's quiet voice asked. He'd sat on the bed next to her, his hand hovering over her knee.

She shook her head.

"I triggered something?"

Damn him and his psychology degree.

"Clara, I—" he had reached out and finally pressed his hand to her knee. She jerked away as if she were possessed and he had just doused her in holy water.

"Don't touch me," she hissed. She knew he saw the absolute terror in her eyes and then she saw the exact moment it all clicked.

"Clara," he choked on the word, on her name. Clara could sense a panic attack coming on, everything about the last week catching up with her finally.

She was on the run with a practical stranger who went by "The Doctor", she was being chased by men with fucking guns because of something _he _did to them, they were in bloody Frinton and this would not be their last stop, and now he knew. Now he knew her dirty little secret. It was written all over his face. The anger in his eyes, the sneer of his lip, the growl in his throat.

"Who?" He asked—no, demanded. Revulsion was present in his voice.

Clara shook her head and buried in her hands, silent sobs quickly turning into struggling gasps. She blocked everything out, trying to remember how to come out of one of these. Shaking hands met her hair as she started panicking and her insides began twisting, grinding themselves together until her belly filled with acid.

Someone was telling her to calm down, that everything was okay, that everything was going to be okay, but she couldn't concentrate on anything right now. Stars started blurring her vision and a black wave washed over her so strongly that when she stood up to find the bathroom she stumbled to the left as if she'd had too much to drink. Hands gripped her elbows and held her upright, the touch clearing away some of the fog, and guided her to the toilet.

The large hands unclasped from her elbows and pulled the toilet seat up. Her hair got pulled back and suddenly everything that had ever been inside of her came up her throat in a stream of bile and acid, burning her mouth and spilling out, ridding her of nutrients and nightmares.

It was done soon enough and she sat back on her heels, watching the stars continue to blink in front of her. Someone shoved a glass of water in front of her face and she gladly took it, pressing her lips to the cool edge of the cup.

"Take small sips, Lancashire," The Doctor soothed and her shoulders slumped as his voice erased even more of the tension.

She obliged, sipping the water and letting it wash away the excess bile from her burning throat. The Doctor stood behind her as she continued sitting on the floor. Eventually his feet must have gotten tired, or maybe he was just tired of looking at her vomit, and he sat down with his shins pressing against Clara's toes, closing the lid and flushing the toilet.

A part of her, a deep rooted part of her, wanted to escape. Whenever she'd had panic attacks during school, when stress got too much or one of her professors yelled too loudly, everyone would stare and point and whisper behind her back. No one except Craig helped her, and even his help wasn't super great. But The Doctor aided her much more than she thought anyone ever could. He didn't touch her too much, and he knew what to do.

She supposed he was a psychologist before a journalist, so maybe it had something to do with that, but either way, she was calmer now because of him.

Exhaustion decided to replace the stars and she sort of fell back into The Doctor who in turn pulled her into his lap, allowing her to cling to him. Her arms went around his neck and his encircled her waist, keeping them locked together.

Clara didn't cry. She had been done sobbing about it for a year and wasn't going to get started again now. The Doctor kept saying 'it's okay' in her ear and after the first few times, she started believing him, letting the warmth of his breath and the calm possessiveness of his voice rock her gently to sleep.

..1..1..

**_The Doctor_**

He needed to find out who.

Would she have told Craig?

He could have Amy grab some police files to see if Clara had contacted them. But he knew she wouldn't have. That panic attack made it clear whoever touched her was still roaming the streets.

A sick feeling rumbled through him and he felt the sudden urge to pass out. Who could touch such a small girl like that? What vile creature could put their slimy hands on her body and not crush it completely? He wanted to kill him, there was no other thought going in and out of his mind. He just wanted to kill the monster, the fucked-up bastard.

He'd deposited Clara in their bed and returned to the kitchen, picking up his routine of pacing around and around when his anger started getting to be too much. He knew Clara was against people, he could tell that much when he first met her. She was closed off and looked at people as if they were these aliens that had suddenly dropped down from space. After reading _The Great Gatsby _and remembering how much she despised Nick and adored Gatsby, she became almost like an open book to him.

But nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing. He'd seen a lot of messed up things in his lifetime, no thanks to Amelia Pond, but this was a first. He was shocked by the amount of hatred coursing through him. Of course, he would never in a million years wish that sort of thing on anyone, but he never got this angry. What was it about her that made him so crazy?

Before he knew what he was doing, Amy had answered the phone with an annoyed puff of breath. "What do you want, Doctor?"

He blinked, not sure how he'd phoned her. Never before had he believed in blind rage, but he supposed he believed in it now.

"Doctor?" Amy asked, agitated. He heard the _click, click, click_ of her heels as she tapped her foot. The sound sent shivers down his spine.

"Change of plans, Pond. I'm done with Torchwood. I've got a new assignment for myself," he said, his voice strangely calm.

Amy laughed disbelievingly. "What?"

"You heard me," he said through gritted teeth.

"I heard you, Doctor, but did you hear yourself? We've been on this case for over a year now, you're not giving it up."

"I have to."

"Why? Did that girl talk you out of it. I told you not to bring her, Doctor, but you refused to listen to me. As always." _Click, click, click._

"Don't talk about her, don't. Something came up. Something more important." He almost couldn't believe the words he was spurting. They came on their own, just trailing out his mouth.

"Something more important! Who the hell do you think you are, Doctor, telling me what's more important than Torchwood. One year, Doctor! One year of our lives has been spent on this. I will not let you throw it away!" Amy had taken to shouting, but The Doctor could barely hear her through the blood pounding in his ears. He was getting angry again.

"You do not control me, Amy. I know you like to think that you do, but you don't," he growled.

"I am your boss, I do control you." _Click, click, click._

"Maybe before, but not today."

"What did she say, Doctor? What did she say to make you change your mind about Torchwood? Did you go and tell her your secrets to get her knickers off? Was that what it took with her? And now she's all 'oh, doctor, don't do it, don't risk your life for something so trivial'." _Click, click, click. _

"I told you to stop talking about her!" The Doctor boomed, slamming his hand down on the kitchen table.

"Something happened to her, didn't it." It wasn't a question and the Doctor didn't need to answer. "What happened to her, Doctor?" _Click, click, click. _"Did someone hurt her?" _Click, click, click. _"Someone hurt her, didn't they?" _Click, click, click. _"And now you want to exact revenge." _Click, click, click. _"You like her, don't you? You actually have feelings for her. I thought I'd never see the day after Rose—"

The Doctor's breath caught and he yelled, "Get off your fucking high horse, Amelia Pond and stop talking to me like that."

_Click, click, click, click. _She was angry at him now.

"Don't use such fowl language with me, Doctor. I've been in charge of this operation since the beginning. I'm the ringleader. You're my carney. You do as I say," her voice dripped with venom and The Doctor choked back his fear.

"None of this stress can be good for the baby, Amelia."

"Then stop stressing me out. Call me in an hour when you've calmed down and we'll talk some more. But be warned, Doctor, you are not changing our plans." He imagined her standing before him now, pointing a perfectly manicured fingernail at his chest painted blood red.

"It was never our anything, Amy. It was always yours," he said in a last ditch effort to keep her talking. It was a lame attempt, he knew.

"Then we both understand that I am the only one who can change anything." She hung up the phone before he could utter another word.

The Doctor went back to fuming, letting his revulsion and anger build up until he could taste them on his tongue. Amy was right. He cared about Clara. He didn't know why or when it happened. He supposed it didn't matter now, the feeling was there despite his attempts at pushing it down.

He wanted to destroy whoever did this to Clara. He needed them caught so he could twist their body inside and out, torturing them until they bled out on the floor.

Men with fucking guns didn't scare her and he got that now. What could scare her after what had happened?

Letting himself remember for a second, The Doctor recalled when he'd been thrown into the world of customer service because apparently it was important for the whole of England to understand the hardships that accompanied the shop boys and girls. Amy had told him it was going to be a slow start getting into the business of freelance journalism and they all needed something to get bread on the table. Who was he to say no?

He saw her first when he went in to get an application. She'd smiled and shaken his hand, her big teeth and blonde hair making him wish he'd already gotten the job. Then it turned out she was his supervisor. She ruled him in the little shop and he spent half as much time taking notes as he did staring mindlessly at her.

It took him a little while to figure out she had a boyfriend, but it didn't deter him as much as it probably should have. When she'd asked him out he thought it was because she had finally given into his charm. He didn't realise until he'd already started saying how much he liked her that her boyfriend was right behind him. He'd remember the painful black eye forever.

Creaking footsteps yanked him away from memory lane and he saw Clara staring at him with a worried expression etched on her face. His anger shot through the roof when he saw her hands still shaking, but one look in her eyes and everything calmed down immediately.

He reprimand himself for being so easily manipulated by a women, but then she stared walking toward him and he forgot all about how much of an alpha male he was. "Are you okay?" He asked, knowing how stupid of a question it was.

She nodded anyway and he had to commend her for her refusal to let this get to her anymore than it already had. "Thanks for letting me sleep." She said quietly, her fingers knotting together nervously.

"Of course," The Doctor sighed, trying his best to give a reassuring smile.

A silence trapped them both and they stood there, staring at each other, until they both opened their mouths at once.

"I'm sor—"

"Who tou—"

They giggled. They had to, otherwise all they were left with was anger and sadness.

"You go first," he said, motioning to Clara. She smiled the smallest smile he'd ever seen and exhaled.

"I'm sorry, Doctor."

"What? Why?" He asked, his eyebrows shooting up. "I should be apologising to you." His voice shot up an octave.

"Why?" She asked sincerely.

The Doctor tried not to growl at himself. "Because," he began, moving closer to her. He saw her flinch and he stopped, closing his eyes. "I triggered this." He opened his eyes when he felt hands rest on his face and saw Clara in front of him, a wistful gleam in her rosy cheeks.

"You didn't know."

An overwhelming emotion, something akin to sorrow, blew up inside of him and he blinked back a sudden well of tears. "I'm so sorry I didn't know." He got out through gasps. "If I had. . ."

Clara started caressing the skin beneath his eye and he melted into her touch. "You did not know, Doctor. I did not tell you." She insisted.

"Who?"

"Why do you want to know?" She asked, genuine curiosity lacing in her words.

"So I can kill him." He answered seriously, watching Clara's eyes bulge. Her hands left his face in anger.

"Great idea, Doctor. Let's just kill the bastard," she mocked, throwing her hands up in the air.

"He is a bastard," he argued.

"I'm not saying he isn't, Doctor, but that doesn't mean I want the man dead."

"How can you not want to hurt him?"

"Fighting fire with fire only leads to getting burned, Doctor. I've been burned enough as it is." She glared at him.

"What's his name?" He asked again, taking a small step in her direction and watching her do the same, only hers were to get away from him.

"Don't do this to me, Doctor. It happened four years ago, I've had plenty of time to get over it."

The Doctor laughed, an ugly sound resonating around the dancing wolves in the kitchen. "Get over it?" He cried hysterically. "You don't just get over something like this, Lancashire!"

"Stop shouting at me!"

"What is his name!"

"I don't fucking know! We weren't really on a last name basis when he was ripping the clothes of my semi-unconscious body!" She cowered away from The Doctor when she saw his mouth open to scream some more. He closed it after a moment, words dying on his tongue.

He didn't want to think about it anymore, about some creep doing something so horrible to her. He shook his head multiple times and started ripping at his hair. "Ugh!" He cried to the floor, crouching down and slapping himself across the cheek once, twice.

"Doctor, you're scaring me," Clara's shaky voice stopped him from slapping himself a third time. He got up and tried to take a deep breath.

"You said last name basis," he said. Clara raised her eyebrows. "That means you know his first name."

"I hate how observant you are," she mumbled. "Harry."

"Harry." The Doctor spat the name. He couldn't do much with Harry. At all.

"Maybe it was the prince," Clara piped and it took The Doctor a moment, a moment in which he felt utterly stupid for thinking she was being serious, to recognise her joke.

"Funny," he deadpanned.

"Can we not have a serious talk right now? All I know is 'Harry' and that isn't much. I don't want you out there murdering all the Harry's in the world."

"Don't be silly, Lancashire," The Doctor chided, then leaned in close, noting how she didn't flinch away. "I'd stick with the one's in Great Britain."

Clara was on the verge of laughing when The Doctor suddenly threw his arms around her in a hug. He felt her tense for a split second before relaxing and getting her own arms around his waist.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"I know."

The Doctor breathed in the scent of her hair the same time he swore she sniffed him and allowed himself to smile. Being in her arms like this was good. It was needed.

They broke apart minutes later and he told Clara to hop in the shower. She agreed silently, leaving the kitchen with a indisputably happy smirk.

He lifted his wrist and turned it so he could examine his watch. It had been an hour. Reluctantly, he twisted his thoughts off how much he now hated every Harry known to man and dialed Amy's number.

"Are we calmer now?" She asked smugly.

The Doctor decided not to bait her. He was done with emotions for today. "Yes."

"Good. Then you understand that we're sticking with the original plans?"

"Yes."

"Phone me tomorrow and I'll have your next location then. I'm thinking Devon." There was a click followed by immediate silence. She never did like to dwell on things.

He threw the phone on the table and started rummaging through his brain for things he and Clara could do their last day here. It was barely one o'clock, they had time before they needed to worry about moving on. The Doctor wanted to treat the poor girl, make her feel special. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to do such a thing.

An idea popped in his brain and he immediately picked his phone back up. He punched some numbers and pressed the mobile to his ear, listening to it ring and ring and ring until an unfamiliar voice answered.

"Lock and Barrel pub, how can I help?"

"Sally, I never noticed you were a man before."

"Is this The Doctor?" The man asked and The Doctor had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Could Sally not keep her mouth shut?

"And who's this exactly?" He drew out the words, stringing the man along.

"Larry Nightingale. I'll take that a yes, then?"

The Doctor's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"You're The Doctor?"

"I'm The Doctor. You must be Sally's doting husband."

"That's me."

"Great, I've got a request."

"I've been told by my wife to give you anything you want—" there was a pause. "Except her. She said I couldn't give you her."

The Doctor laughed lightly. "Of course. No worries, mate. I'm not phoning for her. Just the pub."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll need to rent out the pub tonight. Eight to nine thirty?"

"Done." Larry said quickly, almost afraid. The Doctor's arrogant smile found its place.

"Excellent. See you tonight, Larry Boy." The Doctor hung up, glad to be the one clicking end instead of the other person for a change, and went into the bedroom.

Tonight would be interesting.

..1..

"Where are you taking me?" Clara asked, tugging on The Doctor's sleeve.

He bent his neck to look at her. She'd thrown on a _The Joshua Tree_ t-shirt over black jeans despite him telling her she should dress up. Not that she looked bad, he realised. She looked surprisingly fantastic in her worn band t-shirts. But he'd expected a little more skin.

"It's not that difficult to deduce where we're going, Lancashire. We're not exactly in New York City." He tapped her head and she glared up at him.

"The pub, then?" The Doctor just stared forward, refusing to answer. "The pub." Clara said again, mostly to herself this time.

When they reached their destination, he again put his hand on Clara's back as he knocked on the door.

"Closed tonight," a man smoking a cigarette told him.

"Is it?" The Doctor asked, faking disappointment.

Clara laughed a little. She sounded like a bird. _Stop it, Doctor. Get a fucking grip. _"It's fine, Doctor. I don't need a drink anyways." Just then a man appeared at the door. Clara jumped back a bit and further into The Doctor's hold.

The Doctor couldn't hold back a smile.

_So this is Sally's husband. _"Larry!" He hollered through the glass. The man the other side nodded and began unlocking the door.

"How'd you do that?" Cigarette Man asked, his eyebrows forming a perfect V.

"He used to fuck the owner," Clara replied with ease as the door was pushed open.

"Way to put it eloquently, Clara," The Doctor playfully chastised, enjoying the elbow to the side he got in return.

Larry seated them at a table in the back, handing them menus and stating he'd be back with some water and their finest bottle of red wine. The Doctor watched Clara look around the quiet pub. Soft music wafted through the speakers. Her skin glowed in the dim lights, her doe eyes soft and warm. A stark contrast to how they were earlier.

Between now and before when he'd rented out the pub, The Doctor and Clara had relaxed into the afternoon, watching old Disney movies stored at the house and talking the entire time throughout them about how stupid every character seemed to be. It was easy, The Doctor noticed, him and Clara. They fit well.

"It's nice in here when there isn't anyone else," Clara said softly like she was afraid of breaking something with her voice.

"Mm," The Doctor agreed. "I used to spend nights here when it was like this. Wonderful memories."

Clara's face transformed into one of disgust. "Which surfaces do I have to be afraid of to touch then?"

"Ha," he laughed monosyllabically. "I don't mean like that, Clara. Get your head out of the gutter. Sally would let me come here and write articles. She'd kick everyone out, much to their chagrin, and I'd grab my laptop and start writing. Sometime's it'd be days before the pub opened up again."

Larry returned with their water and wine, popping the bottle open and pouring the blood-red stuff into glasses as Clara spoke, "She wasn't afraid of customers abandoning her business?"

Larry asked if they'd made any decisions yet and The Doctor shooed him away. "They're not gonna leave Sally Sparrow."

"Nightingale!" Larry called.

"Shut up, Larry!" The Doctor called back. Clara sniggered in front of him.

"Thanks for taking me out, Doctor," Clara sighed, taking a small sip of wine.

"Go easy on the alcohol, Lancashire. Don't want a repeat of last time."

"That was gin. This is wine. Much less alcohol," she told him, snapping him a teasing glare.

They were engulfed in silence again, listening to Billy Joel serenade them with "She's Always A Woman".

The Doctor broke the stillness, cracking it open and spilling it out. "You're welcome, by the way."

..1..

"I thought I told you to go easy on the alcohol, Lancashire."

"I'm not drunk, asshole. I tripped."

"On what?" The Doctor unlocked the front door to the flat and let Clara go in first. She seemed to be walking fine.

They got up the stairs and made their way to the bedroom. Clara kicked off her shoes, flopping on the bed with a sigh. "That was the most amazing meal I've had in forever." She said touching her belly, the smallest sliver of creamy skin visible. The Doctor swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Yeah, I definitely agree. Those chefs know how to cook." He laid down next to her, toeing his shoes and socks off. He turned his head to face her in the bed, but her gaze remained on the ceiling.

"I feel almost fat," she groaned, her hand disappearing up her clothing.

_Don't look, don't look, don't look. _

He thought as he stared a hole through the fabric covering her skin. "You're not fat," he insisted.

She moved her neck, their gazes locked. "I said almost, mister. But thank you," she said smugly, closing her eyes.

That same warmth that had followed him ever since he spoke to Clara back in Hunstanton swallowed him whole, blinding him with a fuzziness he didn't recognise. She was pulling him to her without even knowing it and it was killing him slowly. From the inside out. His heart was having a field day, pumping quicker than it needed to. He was afraid he had some problem, but then Clara would sigh and he remembered that, oh yeah, he liked her.

He didn't like that he liked her. Liking someone usually resulted in more bad than good. But he couldn't help it. Everything about her suddenly seemed to make his heart sing quicker than a hummingbird's. He guessed it made it easier knowing this was why he'd dragged her with him. It also made it more difficult, because while they were safe now, there were men with fucking guns out there. Looking for him. And now, he presumed, her.

"Hey," Clara called him out of his darkening thoughts. He felt one of her fingers press against his forehead. "Are you okay?"

He opened the eyes he hadn't realised he'd closed. "Of course I am."

"You're lying." She ran her finger along his forehead until he pushed his eyebrows down.

"How do you know?"

"Because you get these little creases here," she said, pressing further into his skin.

"You've known me for less than a week."

"Mm, but it feels like a lifetime already."

"Is that bad?"

"I have yet to figure that out, Mystery Man," she answered honestly and he admired her for it, hoping it would end up being a good thing.

He felt her breath on his skin and he noticed that she'd crept toward him. Their noses almost touched. Her eyes were trained on his lips.

She'd rolled onto her side, her free hand curling underneath her chin. She looked so small.

The Doctor looked at her eyes again, but they remained plastered to his mouth. His heart started up again, _pumppumppump. _Breathing became a task. He had to remind himself to swallow the saliva building up in his cheeks.

"What are you looking at?" He asked moments later, his voice husky and rugged. He was tempted to cough.

"You." He waited for her to elaborate. He _hoped _she would elaborate. "You are something else, Doctor. Something else entirely."

He nearly swallowed his tongue. "Good something else?" He asked hopefully, sounding childish even to himself. He forced himself not to flinch.

"Great something else."

And then she rolled away, saying incoherent words about needing to get ready for bed.

The Doctor turned on his back and let out a breath. His pants felt tight all of a sudden. Foregoing pajamas, The Doctor simply threw off his coat, tie, and suspenders, lying back down and trying to calm himself down.

Clara had been about to kiss him, he was sure of it. Or maybe he was about to kiss her. Oh, he was too old for these games, too unprepared.

He turned off his light and sunk into darkness, sleep finding him before Clara came back.

"_What's the TARDIS?" He repeated. _

"_It says it right here, Doctor. Don't you pay attention?" Amy waved the folder in front of his face._

_The Doctor scoffed again. "I don't know what you've been drinking, Amy, but this is all nonsense." _

_Amy smacked him over the head with the manilla folder and grinned viciously. "Don't toy with me, Doctor. I hold your life in my hands. What it says is true." _

_Rubbing his head, The Doctor grabbed at the folder again and smirked. "Amelia Pond, I never took you for one to believe in time travel."_

* * *

**"Dreams are only dreams until you wake up and make them real." _It's Kind of A Funny Story_**

* * *

**A/N: **_Wow, so this kind of attacked me. Over ten thousand words of pure plot. I know there's a lot of stuff going on (I barely can keep up with it and I wrote it), so I hope you understand where everything is and what it all means. Please leave a review if you liked it! It gives me so much strength to write. I was fueled by just one comment on this chapter, so imagine what more could do. . ._

_I knew that this was going to happen to Clara from the beginning. I understand it may have just sort of jumped out at people, but I sincerely am rooting for you all to grasp that this is why Clara distances herself from people. This is why they all repulse her and why she's so confused as to why she somehow finds this Doctor character so alluring. (Did anyone catch my allusion to the summary?) Keep the name in mind, though. It'll come to head in later chapters. _

_And now we get to see The Doctor's more possessive/soft/angry/murderous/confused side. Do you think he'll listen to Amy and stay on track or will he start looking for answers regarding Clara's attacker? Are people getting the idea that maybe The Doctor is falling for Clara quicker than she's falling for him? Tell me what you think about that! Can anyone guess who this blonde with big teeth is? If anyone's wondering, I imagine the Doctor to be somewhere in his mid thirties. A little older than Matt Smith. Yes, that means he's a good ten + years older than Clara._

_I titled this chapter what I did because 1) the conversation on Queen gets to the big blow out scene, and 2) I like to think of it as a double meaning because of how horribly Clara and The Doc are doing with their body language. It's all confusing and muddled up. And who doesn't like Queen? I mean, seriously?_

_The Larry Boy nickname! Anyone recognise that? Please tell me at least one person recognised that! _

_I know that I'm totally changing the people in Torchwood, but please trust me. I've never been a huge fan of that show anyway, but for this story, it'll make sense that those are the only people a part of it._

_Okay, one more thing: I like Amelia Pond. A lot. She's one of my favourite characters to ever grace The Doctor who franchise, I think she was a perfect fit for not only The Doctor but for Matt Smith as The Doctor. I know I kind of make you hate her in this, but I assure you, I love her. And I love Rory. We all know she's actually the bestest. But I've always seen her as The Doctor's weakness (hello "Amy's Choice"), so that's what she is. The one thing he can't say no to. Until maybe Clara. And you read correctly, Amelia is pregnant with Rory's baby._

_I really don't think the next chapter will come out as quickly as this one did, sorry. But until then, thank you so much if you enjoy this story. It's getting crazier now, and it's nice to think of random people I don't know liking something I'm putting out. Keep up the good work! You rock!_

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing._**

_Until next time - __LoveIsATemple_


	6. Or Maybe it Was the Other Way Around

**"Hearts are fragile things. That's why you have to be so careful."**

**Lauren Oliver | _Delirium_**

* * *

**Chapter Five: _Or Maybe it Was the Other Way Around_**

_**Amelia**_

The woman with red hair and a semi-swollen belly sat up in bed with her glasses pushed on top of her head and a bunch of manilla folders splayed across the blanket covering her legs. She held a black pen between her white teeth and twirled the inky stick with her fingers as her eyes flitted over random grouping of words that somehow made coherent sentences.

She would never admit it to him, but she was worried about the Doctor. A part of her, one she'd buried deep down years ago, knew that asking him to do this was a bad idea. The Doctor got invested, he lost himself in whatever task she assigned to him. People like him couldn't just do something, they had to have purpose and reason behind them, slapping them on the back to keep them going when everything seemed to be falling apart. Torchwood was their big break; it was _her _big break. Maybe she was cruel for using him, for using how he felt about her against him, but she _needed_ this.

Moonlight slitted on the wooden floor of her bedroom and she stared at it mindlessly, trying to recreate the past in her mind. Images from days long past started filtering before her eyes. _Day she met the Doctor? _No. _Day she met Rory? _No. _Day she got accepted into University? _No. _Day she heard her mother and father being dragged away? _Yes.

_It was cold inside the house. Her parents never turned on the heat at night and Amelia Pond shivered in her bed, wrapping the crisp covers tighter around her body as cool air breathed over her skin. Trying to escape the breeze, she buried her head underneath the duvet for a moment. Then she remembered someone telling her that you could die doing that because you didn't get enough clean air to your lungs, so she flung the warming blanket off and was immediately met with another harsh blow of raw wind. _

_Sleep decided cruelty was an excellent form of torture against the squirming six-year-old and she easily gave up on the idea of a restful night. Tomorrow was Saturday, she could always drift off in the morning after breakfast. Daddy had promised pancakes. _

_Amelia threw her covered legs over the side of her bed and pushed up, ignoring the wave of dizziness that passed over her. She was determined to stay awake all through the darkness. Running to her little desk, where coloured pencils and markers were laid out in disarray, the little girl grabbed a fresh sheet of white paper and sat down in the uncomfortable wooden chair to begin drawing. Her tiny hand swirled with pinks and blues and oranges across the fresh page until a dancing sunset blew up before her. If she closed her eyes long enough, she could almost see it right in front of her face, she could almost reach out and touch—_

_A crash jolted her out of her daydream and her eyes flew open. She heard muffled voices coming from downstairs, noises arguing with one another. Amelia Pond was not one to be terrified of things that go bump in the night. Perhaps it was just mother and father getting to bed late. But no, she heard them come up ages ago. These voices were distinctly male. _

_Amy gently slid off her chair and with small footsteps walked to her door. It creaked a little when she opened it and she flinched back, not sure why she was so afraid. The voices stopped for a moment, listening for something. Amy stopped breathing until they started up again. _

"_I told you they had a kid, now shut the fuck up before it wakes up." _

"_Don't talk to me like that. I know what I'm doing." _

"_Then act like it and stop talking." _

_Amy's room was right in front of the staircase. One glance out the slightest crack in her door and she could see downstairs clear as day. Two bodies dressed in black were exchanging blown up words too big and confusing for Amelia to comprehend. The little girl jumped back with a gasp. A ghostly whisper told her to close the door, but if she did that it would make more noise and then they'd come upstairs to her room. She didn't want to think about what they might do. The strange men in black. _

_Sliding backwards, Amy pressed her back to the wall right by the door where no one could see her unless they peeked hard enough through the hinges. A small wheeze told the small child that the men had started walking up the stairs, their padded footsteps muffled by the suffocating silence. _

_Amy held her breath when she heard them get to the top, her body relaxing only slightly when she realised they weren't coming for her. Then she reasoned with her small brain that the only other option would be her parents. With a beating heart, Amelia shook against the wall, sliding down and closing her eyes against the forces she had no power to stop. _

_Her heart pattered away in her chest and tears rolled down her face. The sound of her parent's bedroom door opening made her flinch. When she heard their muffled cries for help, Amy clenched her eyes and balled her hands into fists until she could feel her bones threatening to break through the skin. _

"_Check on the girl. They'll come willingly if they know she's safe." _

_The voice was talking about her. Suddenly, a shot of adrenaline pumped through her and she stood up, the floor boards of her room squeaking against her small weight, and stepped outside her room. She buzzed with nervous energy, fear coiling in her belly and making her want to be sick. _

_Blackness surrounded the hallway as she creeped towards the voices mumbling about her. Her tiny eyes adjusted slightly and when she was just outside the room, the door swung open and nearly blew her off her feet. _

"_Shit," a mask breathed, his eyes bulging through the ski mask he adorned. He was tall and little spits of blonde hair poked through the mouth hole. Amy cowered, her hands hugging her hips. "I got her." _

_He reached out a hand, a kind hand. It was big too, and uncovered. He had tanned skin and three moles on the inside of his palm. His fingers pulled her wrist and he gently guided her into the bedroom. _

_There were three other people in the room: her parents with their backs to each other, and the other assailant. The small girl looked at her mother and father with big eyes as they stared at her with matching shocked expressions. Her father moved his head to the man who had brought Amelia inside. _

"_You can talk, but only once." The man warned. Mr. and Mrs. Pond nodded slowly. _

_Amy noticed thy were tied together, their wrists joined with some rope-like tie that squeezed their hands. She eyed her parents cautiously, afraid. Someone held her back when she attempted to move and she heard her mother gulp. Looking up at the man who brought her in, his fluffy beard still poking through like wires, the little girl tried to understand it all. _

"_Amelia," her father said desperately, choking on her name. She tore her gaze away from the man in black and saw her father shed a tear. He never cried. She waited. "Just remember that we love you, your Mummy and I. We always will." _

_Then she felt something slide down her own face and she realised she was crying as well. She didn't know why. _

"Amy. Amy. Amy."

32-year-old Amelia Pond snapped out of her memory with a jolt. She looked to her left and saw a hand placed delicately on her shoulder. Her eyes traveled from the thick fingers to the skinny wrist, up the arm and to the face of Rory Williams.

"I'm okay," she insisted, gripping her husband's hand with her own.

He looked at her disbelievingly and scooched closer. "Why do you torture yourself, Amelia?" He asked, looking at her with bug eyes that knew her all too well. That look reminded her of the Doctor, the way he used to gaze longingly, wishing to know her deep dark past.

Shaking her head, Amy moved to kiss Rory, letting his soft lips spare her head of the pain. A hand began caressing the swollen skin underneath her pyjama shirt and she felt light kicks press against her belly. Amy broke the kiss and joined her hand with Rory's.

"She can feel you," Amy sighed, cocking her head to get a better look at the man lying in bed with her, soothing her from her agonising past. He seemed to be in some stupor, each feathery kick bringing a new flash of feeling. Rory spied her out of the corner of his eye and gave her a reassuring smile, a warm one that he dedicated solely to her.

"I love you," he replied almost sadly, dipping his head to place a kiss on her tummy, the smack of his lips tickling the hairs that had grown there.

"I love you too, Rory Pond."

* * *

_**River**_

"And you're sure he's there, Harold?" She clutched the phone tighter to her ear in anticipation, anger seething through every pore like she was made of the stuff. She'd spent years building up her walls and it took one man with a smirk and beard to tear them down. No mercy now.

"I'm sure, Song. Shall I tell our beasts?"

River Song breathed a sigh of relief. She was one step closer to catching him. "Just Riddle. John's been itching for a fight. Lazarus needs a break. He did snap his pinky finger after all, the pathetic mutt."

"He's been a great help, River, remember that," Harold insisted.

River rolled her eyes and started pacing. "I don't care what he's done for us. We need him out there with Riddle and he's just whining like the bitch he is. He's lucky I don't break his hand," she fumed, her heels hitting the concrete of Torchwood's lab with force. "I'm fed up with the Doctor. Just get him to me."

"Done and done."

River smiled slyly at the frightened tone of her worker boy. "Good work, Saxon. Make me proud."

She snapped the phone shut and stomped over to the box. With a careful hand, she grazed the woodwork, her fingernails scratching down the sides quietly. Such a magnificent thing, so powerful and yet so small.

"Ma'am," Jack's call startled River's hand away from her precious masterpiece. "Admiring again?"

River laughed humourlessly and nodded her head. "If only I could get the bloody thing open, we'd be all okay."

"We'll get the key back, don't worry. We've got our best men on the job."

"He can fight, you know. He's clever." River reminded him, giving him a pointed look of defiance.

Jack shrank back a little bit. "I know, but we're smarter."

Nodding again, River set her sights back on the glowing blue box. "Do you know what drew me to him, Jack?" She asked. Her right-hand man didn't need to ask what she was referring to.

"I can only imagine, River," he replied, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.

With a wistful smile, she leaned against the machine and tried to recall exactly the moment she spotted him. "He was tall and rugged. That beard really did it for me. But it wasn't his looks, to be honest he looked a bit odd, but it was the way he spoke. Like he was already my best friend, like I was special. I'm an old woman, Harkness, and he knew that. A young man like him playing with a girl like me, I was putty in his hands."

She glanced at Jack whose face had grown increasingly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat to speak, "You couldn't help it, ma'am."

River threw her head every which way, taking in her surroundings. Tables with glass beakers and off-coloured liquids surrounded them entirely, placed almost haphazardly around the large room. Pairs of goggles were strewn across the tabletops, blasts of whatever explosion occurred splattered on the plastic frames. The walls were white, pure and angelic. Ironic, for the people who worked in here considered themselves the demons.

"But I didn't have to tell him anything."

"You trusted him."

Turning back to Jack, River frowned. "And look where it got me. Go back to your office. Now."

Jack took the order and turned on his heel, skipping out of the lab.

River slumped down, her back pressing painfully into the side of the blue box. Clutching at her hair, the woman began rocking from side to side, the memories overcrowding her senses entirely.

_He was so handsome and kind. She'd never had the typical sense of attractiveness, something she was always made fun of for, but this man, he walked like magic._

_He sat down three bar stools away from her, a charming smile pirouetting on his face. She watched carefully as he ordered a rum and coke, flinching when he looked at her and winked. A blush found its way to her cheeks and she cursed herself. _

_The bartender grabbed a few bottles and started mixing the man's drink. River tried to stop staring, but something about him pulled her. She had to say something, anything, to get his attention. _

"_Are you old enough to be drinking?" She asked, her words dripping with hidden innuendoes. _

_He quirked an eyebrow in her direction and moved his hand up to scratch his fluffy beard. "I think this sucker here'll tell you all you need to know." _

_River sucked in a breath, trying to remind herself how to properly function. "And what does the ability to grow facial hair have to do with anything? A boy I knew once was able to outgrow his father's beard by the time he was sixteen." _

"_Perhaps they were from Turkey?" He quipped, still smiling. River chuckled lightly. _

"_Born and bred in London, sweetie." Hopefully her gravelly voice would peak his interest. _

"_I'm old enough, trust me," he said lightly as the bartender smacked his drink down in front of him. _

_He picked up the glass and downed it in one gulp, his face souring as the burning liquid poured down his throat. River listened to the ice cubes clink and rattle in the cup when the boy sloshed the remaining drink around, his wrist casually jostling the glass. _

"_So because you can swallow alcohol, that means you can legally drink it?" She questioned further, enjoying the sigh whistling through his lips. _

"_33, thank you very much. Been legal for fifteen years." _

_River did a double take. He certainly didn't look older than 25. She supposed she saw it, if she looked closer. The sunken eyes and the crinkles of frown lines marring his forehead. Her observations were rudely interrupted when the man hopped from his stool and sat next to her. _

"_Did I say you could sit here?" She asked accusingly. _

_He just kept on smiling. "Your eyes were begging for it," he said suggestively. "Tell me your name." _

_All defenses went up, but she could feel the warmth from his skin as he sat so close and that was her undoing. "River." _

"_Fascinating name." _

"_And yours?"_

"_Believe it or not, but it's John Smith. My parents had a funny thing about 'standing out.'" _

_Despite her best efforts, River laughed. His smile grew. _

_They'd talked all night. After three drinks, she was wobbly and he was offering to take her home. She'd said no and told him she'd rather go to his place. _

"_It's more of a hotel, actually. Just visiting Cardiff." _

_She didn't care. She couldn't. He was nice and handsome and he smiled at her. _

"_I'm not one to take advantage of a drunk woman," he said. _

"_Then it's a good thing you're drunk too," River gargled as he held her close and guided them to his hotel. _

_The building was two minutes away from the pub and River stumbled up to the elevator, banging on the call button angrily, her body working itself up into a frenzy of hormones. John came up behind her and grabbed her hand. The limb became slippery with nervous and excited sweat, but her boy didn't seem to mind. When the elevator finally got to them, she pulled him inside and shoved him against the reflective wall. Buttons were pressed blindly when River captured his mouth and began nipping at his lips with hungry ardor. Arms wrapped around her and pulled her flush against his clothed skin. _

_A ding sounded off in the distance and River found herself clumsily being dragged down a dirty-carpeted hallway with her lips still firmly attached to John's. They stopped suddenly and he pushed her off a little, their breaths coming out rushed and jumbled. _

"_Wait," he moaned. River tried to kiss him again, but he held out a hand. "I need to find the key." _

_She watched in painful patience as John searched through his pockets. His face lit up and he pulled out a keycard, swiping it against the sensor. Buzzing vibrated River's bones and John yanked her with him through the now-open door. __By the time it swung shut behind them, John had already removed River's fancy black dress. The older woman groaned into his mouth when his hands started exploring parts of her that hadn't been touched by another person in too long._

_Their movements were sensual but rushed; every flick of a finger, every pull of a hand sent shivers down her spine. Getting rid of their clothes happened fast and soon enough it was just them and nothing else. Not usually one to sleep with men without knowing anything about them, River froze when he climbed over her. He hushed reassurance and she calmed her breathing, loosening everything for the intrusion she was about to feel. _

_It ended with screams falling from her mouth._

_They met at the bar every night for a month before he got the balls to ask her out on a real date. He took her to her favourite restaurant. She assumed at the time he just took her there because he liked it. Their romance flared quick and soon enough she was opening up to him about everything: her past, her present, her future._

River banged her head against the blue box and let out a muffled cry, letting her teeth sink into the flesh of her arm in frustration. With wobbly feet, she stood up and walked cautiously to one of the many lab tables. Her fingers danced across the curved openings of the beakers before she grabbed one and flung it to the ground.

Wild eyes observed acid tear its way through the concrete like a savage monster. Like the Doctor. She waited for ten seconds, holding her breath, before grabbing the correct base and throwing it over the sticky substance, watching the ground as it stopped collapsing.

* * *

_**The Doctor**_

The Doctor could hear Clara happily singing as she packed her bag. He smiled to himself, stuffing a few digestives in his mouth and sipping tea. They were leaving Frinton and heading off to the Devon countryside. He had picked out a cottage a while back when he and Amy came up with an escape route to keep the Torchwood demons at bay. Amelia had phoned him the other day about the article. The article he had yet to even think about starting. Which, he thought furiously, had nothing to do with the small brunette currently blabbing The Killers "Change Your Mind" at the top of her lungs.

No, it wasn't her, it was his thought process. Something was blocking it.

He picked up his wrist and turned it over so he could read the time: _7:13_. They were supposed to have left fifteen minutes ago. Damn Clara and her insistence on staying up last night. She'd wanted her last night in Frinton to be special, and while Clara and himself had opposite views of what 'fun' was, he found himself being dragged to the beach past ten o'clock with a bottle of gin and a couple of blankets.

Careful not to disturb any coppers, the duo spread their beach blankies over the cold sand and passed the bottle back and forth between them, telling random stories about university and childhoods. He learned that she was a Cambridge graduate and her parents died when she was young. With more alcohol in her system, she revealed that she tried being 'cool' for one month back when she was seventeen. This apparently included getting a tattoo (she would not divulge where or what it was) and illegally getting wasted with weirdos and posh kids.

Able to control his mind and mouth a bit more even with the threat of alcohol, he spared her most of his stories, letting Clara talk more about her life. She was a fascinating creature. Intelligent, witty, and very beautiful. If, you know, you're into that sort of thing. 22-year-old fresh out of university girls who run away with strange men on a whim even with the looming threat of men with fucking guns.

Over the past few days, the Doctor was discovering how much he enjoyed Clara's presence. And it annoyed him to no end. He was the Doctor. He did not feel for things that were not himself, his job, and Amelia Pond. But the more he spent time with Clara, listening to her sweet cull of a voice tell him stories of a past life and a girl too far gone, the more he found himself entranced with her.

He noticed everything about her. The way she smiled shyly if he ever did anything remotely chivalrous like hold a door open for her or guide her somewhere with his hand barely touching the cloth covering her lower back. The Doctor saw her cheeks swell with a grin whenever she came up with a witty retort, which was more often than not. He adored the small whimpers she released in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep and wound up watching her. Or how she squealed whenever he accidentally walked in on her changing. That'd happened two times over five days and he was not proud to admit the pleasure he got from shocking both her and himself. She fascinated him. That's all he could think.

Only once did he allow his mind to wander far enough that he again saw the way she looked mostly naked in skimpy underwear that revealed way too much while somehow holding everything together. She was small all around. Her breasts were slight bumps, perfectly rounded. Her stomach was flatter than a board with no signs of muscle and a tiny inny bellybutton. Skinny legs that looked more like twigs than anything else. No curves, just smallness.

As he sat there at the kitchen table mulling over his confused feelings toward the girl in the other room, he considered for a moment the prospect of her having the same view of him. Did she spend as much time wishing he would kiss her when she knew it was wrong but oh so right? Did she watch him as he slept too?

His eyes focused again on his watch and he saw that five minutes had already gone by and she was still singing that same song on loop. Groaning tiredly, the Doctor got up, pushed his chair in, and walked out the kitchen.

"Clara, hurry up!" He shouted, his voice carrying enough that the singing immediately stopped. He smirked to himself in pride.

"I'm just saying goodbye!" Clara yelled back.

"You've been here only five days, you're hungover, and I don't know if singing that song will really give this place the right message," he mentioned quieter as he approached the bedroom. Clara was sitting on the bed, her duffel bag all packed, wearing a Billy Joel t-shirt.

"Well, I couldn't think of another song to sing," She dignified, crossing her arms under her chest and squeezing her ribcage.

"How about 'You're My Home'?" the Doctor suggested, pointing to Billy Joel.

Clara's smile spread like butter and the Doctor met it with one of his own. "I should've done that. Damn it." She snapped her fingers and bowed her head in mock frustration.

"Well, if you wanna start the song up now, I'd be happy to listen."

With an arched eyebrow, Clara stood up and gathered her things. "In your dreams, Mystery Man."

_Oh, definitely, Lancashire. _He thought. Out loud he said, "How can you be so sentimental about this place?"

It was old, fairly unkept, and green. He hated green every time he came here.

"These've been some of the best days of my life. How could I not be so sentimental?" He looked at her curiously, but there was such sincerity in her words and her body language screamed 'unhappy' that the Doctor had no other choice but to believe her.

"Hey," he said softly. Clara's eyes whipped to his own, their gazes locking in a heated staring contest. "Maybe we can come back another time."

He didn't know what possessed him to say something like that. _Next time_? There wouldn't _be _a next time. There _couldn't _be a next time. He was going to finish this article, become a millionaire, retire, find some random girl to sleep with without the threat of baggage, and live happily ever after.

One look at Clara's face, though, shattered every one of those desires. Her eyes lit up and her smile widened to the point he was afraid it would crack her skin. Well, he was stuck with her for a while yet.

"But come on," he chided, moving closer and stepping behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, grabbed her bag, and pushed her out of the room.

Dropping the bag next to his, he turned around and faced Clara. There she was, looking small and happy as ever, ready for Devon and excited for another adventure.

"So what's this place called again?" She asked when he figured he'd been staring too long.

He uncomfortably coughed his dizziness away and shifted his bow tie. "Honeysuckle Cottage. Beautiful and scenic. There's a pool and it's on a farm. The owners also have a playground equipment shop, so there are loads of trampolines and swing sets out front."

With bright eyes, Clara sighed. "Sounds perfect. Can't wait."

The Doctor laughed a little and picked up their things, swinging his briefcase over his shoulder and throwing Clara her bag. "Then let's go."

Just as the words left his mouth, a ringing started up in the Doctor's pocket. Something vibrated against his leg incessantly. He groaned.

"I think your phone's ringing, Doctor," Clara said, looking at his pocket.

He nodded, reaching in and pulling out the phone. He didn't recognise the number. "Hello?" He asked cautiously, keeping his voice neutral.

"Doctor?"

His brow furrowed. "Sally?"

"Oh, good, Doctor. Bad news, I saw one of the guys from the photograph just outside the pub."

_Shit. _

_Shit, shit, shit, shit._

"Fuck!" He shouted. Clara visibly jumped away from him. He couldn't find in himself to care too much at the moment, though. They were both in danger now, she should be frightened. "Which one?"

"Uh, the shortish one. He's got silvery hair?"

"John Riddle." The Doctor's mouth hung open. They called John Riddle "the Hunter" for good reason. "How long ago?" He demanded, inching closer to the cowering girl before him. He held out his free hand and begged her to take it with his eyes. She nodded calmly and grasped his fingers. She felt like heaven in his grip.

"Literally thirty seconds ago. Did a double take, then phoned you."

"Thanks, Sally. Looks like we'll be off then. Wish me luck, old lover."

"You don't need luck, Doctor. Go get 'em."

He hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket, moving to get Clara in a hug. She flung her arms around him and he could feel her shaking.

"It's gonna be okay," he whispered into her hair, smoothing a hand down her back. "We just need to be brave, okay?" She nodded against his clothes.

They sucked in a mutual breath and parted, but his hands didn't leave her body. He maneuvered his grasp to her arms, grazing her bare skin and noting how thin she was. Their eyes locked again and this time he saw fear and strength hidden in her gaze. She was pulling him further and further into her abyss without even realising it. Without realising how insane she was making him. For a moment, he thought he had two hearts with the way his pulse beat so erratically out of time.

He was wasting precious seconds, he knew, but he needed this. He needed her eyes to give him the push.

"Let's go, Doctor," Clara murmured. And so they went.

The light outside was bright and the air was chilly with remnants of spring hanging on June's back. The Doctor and Clara's feet moved in synch, their hands clasped tight and their bags swinging dangerously from their shoulders. He could barely keep up with his thoughts, his brain continuously going back to how great it felt holding Lancashire's hand. Shaking his head, he tried to focus on the people. He needed to find Ripper before Ripper found him.

A familiar face was stationed a few hundred feet away from him and Clara. Silver hair, small. He wore sunglasses and all black. God, he must be hot. His pulse quickened again and he gave Clara's hand an absent squeeze.

John Ripper was a ruthless "kill-for-hire" assassin picked up by Torchwood ten years ago to be a permanent member of the defense team. He co-ran the security force with his good buddy Richard Lazarus who, if the Doctor remembered correctly, was currently out with a broken finger. Sucker. That didn't mean he was out of the woods with Ripper. That man had more kills than any other assassin the Doctor had ever come across. Piles and piles of memorabilia was stored at the man's home, little tokens taken from his victims. Definitely a serial killer; a sick one that felt no remorse. That's why he took the trinkets, to remind himself that he ripped people lives apart. They were his souvenirs, the trinkets.

He wondered what Ripper would find to take of his if the Hunter ever caught him.

"Keep moving, Lancashire," the Doctor said quietly, nudging them in the opposite direction away from Ripper. He knew it was a fat chance the Hunter didn't catch him looking, but he hoped that having Clara by his side deterred the man a bit so he and his Lancashire could escape.

_Again with the possessiveness, Doctor? _He thought to himself as he attempted to get lost in the crowded Frinton street.

The train station was just outside the quote-unquote gated community that was Frinton-on-Sea and he knew their train was leaving in less than ten minutes, so he had to rush. And with a crazy murderer on their trail, the Doctor had a little more incentive to move quickly.

Breaking away from the crowd, the Doctor held his breath. They were exposed now, visible to anyone with a prying eye. Strangers gave him odd looks as he clung to Clara and pulled her with him. His blood was pumping fast, adrenaline spiking his veins without any threat of real danger yet. Although, he supposed simply being followed by a crazy guy was enough to get the adrenaline going.

Train's whistled in the distance, signaling their closeness to the station. The Doctor started running. Clara followed by his side, their hands never unclasping. In fact, Clara entwined their fingers and the Doctor nearly stumbled over his feet with the new thrill echoing through his body. He could hear her laughing a little beside him and let a little chuckle of his own out.

"Doctor!" A voice called behind him. A deep voice. The voice of the Hunter.

He couldn't turn around, not with Clara strapped to him. They were so close to the station, so close. He could see trains slipping through trees, hear them chug on the tracks, feel the rumbling ground as they glided.

"Stop right there or I'll shoot!"

The Doctor skidded to a stop. The Hunter made no empty threats. Clara jerked next to him and he gave her one very stern look that said everything he could muster. _Don't speak, don't move, don't think. _She stared at him bug-eyed. The Doctor dropped everything and grabbed Clara's bag, throwing it to the ground with his stuff.

"Better," Ripper grumbled. The Doctor heard footsteps approaching. A good assassin never has his back turned. Not that he was an assassin. "Now, who've we got here, eh? Rose, is it?" Turning around slowly, fuming on the inside, the Doctor came face to face with an old friend. "This isn't Rose. She was blonde. Taller too, I think."

"John, it's been a while," the Doctor rolled casually, giving a quick smile.

Ripper eyed Clara, the fingers not holding onto his shiny, illegal gun moving to touch her hair. Clara flinched. "No, definitely not Rose. I've got orders to take you back to base, Doctor." Ripper loomed up at the Doctor.

"Have you now? Well, best tell River I'm a bit busy at the moment."

The Hunter scoffed. "You're quip won't get you out of this, John."

"Do you remember when we were friends? When I used to be J.S. and you were J.R.?" The Doctor was pushing his luck, but he needed time. He looked for an easy jab. Ear clap? Mm, with the ear clap he'd crumple to the floor and drop his gun, then with a kick to the face, he and Clara could get away.

"I'm not here to reminisce, Smith. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. . ." his sentence trailed off, blowing up into the air like smoke. The hard way. Dead.

"Does our history mean so little to you, Johnny Boy?" The Doctor inquired, jumping a little on the soles of his feet, trying to get Ripper to come up to him. It'd be easier if the Hunter thought he could get in the first punch.

Sure enough, the well-trained assassin with a tiny and unloved heart stepped in front of the Doctor and jutted his chin out. "You know I hate it when you call me that." It was a menacing growl. The Doctor thought perhaps he should be a little more afraid.

"You used to love it when we were drunk."

A small smirk played at John's lips. "I'm not drunk now."

Ripper pulled back an arm, but the Doctor was prepared, shoving Clara away and ducking, missing the fist/face connection by a few centimetres. In confusion, the Hunter stumbled forward. The Doctor moved back and brought his hands up, slapping them over either of Ripper's ears. The older man dropped to the ground with a girlish squeal, his gun clapping down beside him.

The Doctor took in Ripper's momentary pain-fest and lifted his foot to kick the man while he was down. With the heel of his boot, the Doctor thrust his leg so his shoe cut a clean hit to the Hunter's temple. John fell back, his head thumping with a loud smack to the gravel-covered ground beneath them. Blood spilled from where the Doctor kicked and he backed up, taking in his handy work.

"Is he dead?"

The Doctor whipped his head around. Clara stood shivering, holding onto herself like she was afraid she'd crumble if she let go. He momentarily forgot about the man lying in a puddle of his own blood and went to Clara, stopping just before reaching her. What had he done? Had he scared her off?

He held out his arms, but she shook her head. "Is. He. Dead?" She asked again.

Shaking his head enthusiastically, the Doctor replied, "No, no. He's very much alive. He's just very stupid without his gun. He doesn't do well with hand to hand."

Clara gave one nod of her head, still shivering, and collapsed into the Doctor, taking in shaky breaths and letting them out. One by one.

"We need to leave now," he mumbled.

She moved her head and peeked up at him. He gazed down at her. "I know."

They separated and grabbed their things. The Doctor ran to Ripper, picked up the gun, and shoved it in his briefcase, hoping Clara didn't see. Then he pulled Clara's hand into his own and ran with her to the train station.

His body was buzzing by the time they made it on their train. They had two minutes to spare. No one else seemed to be in their car of the train and the Doctor tried to calm his nerves with Clara sitting across from him. She was no longer shaking, but he could see the fear in her eyes.

"Clara," he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. He was going to hurt us."

Clara snapped him a look of disbelief and he quivered. Her eyebrows went up. "You think I'm mad at you?"

"I think you're scared of me," the Doctor shrugged, looking away. "You have every reason to be afraid of me."

"Why? Why should I be scared?"

"Because. . .You saw what I did—what I could do to you."

"You don't scare me, Doctor." She sounded sincere, but he couldn't really tell above the ringing in his ears.

There was some rustling and he looked up. Clara was sitting next to him, taking his hands in hers, getting her dainty fingers through his. "I'm not frightened of you," she stressed, laying her head on his shoulder. He felt a spark and wondered if she could feel it too. "I'm just frightened of him. Of them. They want to hurt you."

The Doctor started stroking the back of Clara's hand with his thumb and he heard her sigh into his neck. Her breath was warm and damp as it met the fine hairs of his skin. "John Ripper's always been too excitable. He loves shooting his gun off, so the millisecond he thinks you're worthy of dying, whether or not he's been told not to shoot, he'll shoot."

"What do they want from you, Doctor?" Clara's small voice asked.

He desperately wanted to tell her. More so than ever right then, he just wanted to spill all of his secrets with no filter, no regrets. But he held his tongue.

Shaking his head, the Doctor leaned back and pulled Clara with him so her head settled over his heart. He felt her breathing, he smelled her sweet skin, he could taste her trepidation.

"You're heart's beating fast," she observed, removing one of her hands from his and twirling it around the pocket of his jacket. He could barely feel the pressure, but it was enough to dull his mind.

"Adrenaline," he replied. _And you. _

"I'll bet you mine's beating faster than yours."

"Doubt it."

"Humph," Clara mumbled childishly, grabbing at the Doctor's now free hand and placing it right below her left breast.

His breath caught, a lump forming in his throat. He was touching Lancashire in a very intimate place. Almost too intimate. There were quick _thudumps _vibrating up his arm and he wanted so badly to move his hand up just a little to cup the fleshy mound.

"It's beating fast," the Doctor hummed, closing his eyes and trying still his erratic, shallow breaths.

Pressure released his chest and when he opened his eyes Clara's head was level with his own. She was watching him intently, a V formed between her eyebrows. Concentration. What was she looking for? He tried to stare blankly, but his eyes must be swimming in emotion because she brought her thumb up and started tracing the dark shadows beneath his lower lashes, swirling the pad delicately as if he'd snap.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said sleepily, her eyelids drooping. "But I'm afraid of this."

"What do you mean?" He asked desperately.

Her eyelids fell further. "This. _Us._ I don't want to get hurt."

The Doctor took in a sharp breath that hurt his lungs. "I won't hurt you. I won't let you get hurt."

"That's what he said."

_He? _The Doctor watched Clara's face fall from grace. _Oh, he._ Anger bubbled inside of him, directly pointed at the mysterious Harry."Clara, I am not him. I promise you."

She let out a laugh, a small, pathetic laugh that sounded like a laugh getting caught with its knickers down. "I know. But this is new territory for me."

"What? You've never run away with a madman before?"

They both laughed that time, breathless and nervous. She was telling him how she felt. That she felt the same way. Oh, he couldn't form a coherent thought. His head was jumbled and messy.

"I've never run anywhere before."

Their breaths started mingling and he could literally taste her on the tip of his tongue. Sugar and spice and everything nice. He wanted to melt into her, to become one with her forever and a day.

Maybe it was the near death experience or maybe it was the hormones or maybe it was just the water, but one minute she was eyeing him like he was a petri dish and she was a microscope. . .and then she was kissing him.

Or maybe it was the other way around.

He didn't know and he didn't care. All he could think was _warm, soft, wet _as Clara's mouth melded to his. She pressed firmly against him, moving up a bit and swinging her leg over his lap. Her chest crushed his, her hands moving up his arms and teasing his hair, pulling his head closer to her.

The Doctor had kissed before. Many times before. Usually it meant nothing. He never liked kissing, it was all just a part of the game, but her calm, sensual lips curved to his and he forgot the world. He was full of her. Every thought buzzed with Clara, his hands roaming the smallness of her back, ruffling her t-shirt until his pinkies came in contact with hot skin. She gasped into his mouth. There was not enough blood going to his brain.

No tangling tongues, no grinding, no pants or moans. It was just mouth; delicate, smooth, perfect mouth.

It ended too soon for his liking with Clara fumbling off of him and wiping her lips, a sheepish smile and reddening blush tainting her face. She looked beautiful.

For the rest of the trip she stared out the window and he could see her pulse jumping in her neck, hitting her skin with mercurial leaps of embarrassment and elation.

What just happened?

She definitely started that. She was the one who tiled her chin in just the right way to capture his mouth's attention. Clara Oswald, his Lancashire, trusted him. Completely. She _wanted _him.

He hit his head to his seat and attempted a proper breath. This added a whole new playing field to his game, one he was not prepared for. He wondered what Amy would think. "I knew it would happen." That's what she'd say. Then she'd follow it by warning him, "Now if she gets killed, you'll want to die right along with her."

And she would be right.

Somehow, in the small amount of time since he's known this girl sitting in front of him with a red face, she'd managed to entangle herself in his heart. She shimmied her way into his life, messing with his plans, his head. He didn't want to go back. He couldn't go back. They were a team now. Hell, they'd been a team since she invited him back to her place a week ago, when the rain was pouring and the wind was howling. Before she even said yes to running with him. There was no living outside of her, without her.

_Well, Doctor, _he thought to himself with an audible sigh that made Clara's eyes flit to his for a second before slipping back to the fascinating world outside the train window._ Let the games begin_.

..1..

_**Clara**_

She didn't know what possessed her to do it. Maybe it was to prove that she wasn't afraid of him. Either way, her heart was bumbling on like an idiot high on crystal meth and her lips wouldn't stop tingling. Something had changed within the past few hours and it wasn't that she'd kissed him. Clara liked the Doctor, and she couldn't not think about it, about him. Their relationship was odd, backwards almost. They were already sleeping in the same bed, and yes, one night Clara accidentally rolled over and her arm landed squarely on Mystery Man's chest like in the movies. She'd woken with a start, catching her breath and chastising herself for enjoying the solidness of his body.

Clara Oswald didn't like people. She loved Craig and her grandparents and that was it.

But this man instilled feelings in her that were new and strange and almost painful. She should be more afraid, she knew that. A man with a fucking gun came after them. But she wasn't afraid with him there, because, as she saw, he could and would protect them both.

Kissing him had been spur of the moment. The adrenaline in her system started dwindling down and her head got fuzzy, so she kissed him. Perfect explanation.

When their lips met her mind went completely blank and she consumed the Doctor, letting her mouth control his with little smacks and pops. His hands had caressed her back and she'd spent the time wishing he'd just throw her shirt away already.

The stubble decorating his chin poked her face, spreading delicious pain and flaring up some sort of feral thing inside her belly. She couldn't get carried away on a train, though, so when his cold pinkies grazed the soft skin of her back, she knew she had to get away before anything happened.

Since that night at university, when Harry took her soul and ripped it to shreds, Clara had convinced herself that men would always repulse her. That no one could get her pulse erratically beating or make her do stupid things like straddle someone's lap on a train. Then she met the Doctor and he uncharacteristically made her want to throw her inhibitions away and crawl all over him the first night she spoke to him. She was so ready to invite him upstairs to her bedroom before he interrupted it all by admitting he was on the run and asking her to join him.

Everything was shifting in her brain, getting accustomed to the untouched desire stored deep within her psyche. And she was ready for it.

* * *

**_The Hunter_**

His head was on fire, a large welt the size of a golfball situated over his right temple. Searching through his pocket, he pulled out a burner phone and dialed Song's number, hoping she lacked the necessary skills to murder him through the receiver.

"Ripper," she said slowly, dragging out his name hopefully.

"He blindsided me," he admitted gravely, sliding his hand down his face, feeling the dried blood flake.

There was a pause. A deadly silence. Then indecipherable screaming. He yanked the phone away from his ear.

"I know, I—I know," he grunted angrily when River finally calmed down. "He did the ear-clappy thing he's so fond of."

"Well fuck, because now we don't know where the hell he's going!" She squealed in a pitch he was sure only dogs could hear.

"I've got information, Song. I think you'll like it."

"Tell. Me," she demanded, her sultry voice dropping an octave.

Ripper smiled. "He's got a girl."

* * *

_**A/N: **Eh. . .I don't know about this one. I took a while rereading and fixing things, but I'm not too happy with it. Hopefully you will be, though. That'd be enough for me, if you guys liked it. _

_The Doc and Clara kissed. Ooh. . . That's actually the bit I'm most unsure about. But if you guys thought it was good (or if you thought it was bad) tell me! I need these reviews to know that I'm not horribly screwing everything up to the point of no return._

_John Ripper and Richard Lazarus are the Torchwood "defense team," yes. I was poking through my Doctor Who character encyclopedia and thought these two guys would fit the "kill-for-hire" profile quite well. And who doesn't want to put Inspector Lestrade and Mycroft together as a team? _

_I never know what to say in these author's notes. I can't seem to gather my thoughts. But anyway, next couple chapters should be less "oh god we're going to die"__. What did you think about me adding the different people's perspectives? Craig's going to make an appearance in one of them too, just for your information. I thought it would be too much to have the whole thing in the Doc and Clara's viewpoints, so we're switching it up!_

_I'm probably too old to enjoy young adult novels as much as I do, but I have to admit that a good chunk of my bookshelf is overrun with these types of books and Delirium is one that I'm going to be stealing quotes from more than once. _

_And I just have to say a massive thank you, massive, huge, ginormous thank you, to Random Kid guest reviewer. Those reviews you wrote sincerely gave me a smile that would not go away. Tuesday's when I have my hardest class and when I got out I had all these emails telling me I had reviews and I reread them over and over until I practically memorised them, so thank you! And thank you to anyone else who reviewed, you're amazing and wonderful and I love you even though we don't know each other at all. I can't believe this story's being recommended between friends. Ahh! It's such new territory for me!_

_I really hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I promise that when they get to Devon (Honeysuckle Cottage is an actual place I've stayed at before and made me desperately want to move to Devon) there'll be more fun and games and sexual tension. Thanks again! You're all awesome. _

_Until next time - LoveIsATemple_

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing._**


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